Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (40 page)

Five has received a request for records regarding DM. Will stall it as long as I can but trouble is coming. Acknowledge. – SO

9:47 a.m. Eastern Time – Wednesday

Russell Senate Office Building

Washington D.C.

"It's Allan Ayers, Senator," a voice said, David Kemiss having removed his cell phone from his jacket pocket and answered a call. "I've found it."

Kemiss smiled. You could always rely on a bureaucrat to be spineless. It was in their nature and Allan Ayers was no different. Thirty-six hours after his threat to fire the man, Ayers had been back on board and had been helping Castellano locate McIver's cabin. "Where is he?"

"I centered my search on areas within a hundred miles of Roanoke and I paid special attention to the areas northwest of Roanoke since that's the direction McIver was last heading when his wife was known to be with him—"

"I didn't ask where you centered your search, Allan. I asked where he is."

"Greenbrier County, West Virginia, sir, near a small reservoir known as Lake Sherwood."

"You're sure?"

Ayers was silent for a moment. "As sure as I can be without actually seeing McIver there. The property's registered owner is a corporation out of the Grand Cayman Islands called Kirkgrim Incorporated. I've run the company name through every search engine and program I can think of and the only thing it seems to be associated with is this property. There's no tax returns, no website, nothing. It's just a holding company with one property, which is pretty unusual, especially in as remote a location as this Lake Sherwood."

Kemiss took a seat at his desk and drummed his fingers on the smoothly polished mahogany as he thought things through. McIver had disappeared twice now, so it certainly made sense that he was hiding somewhere nearby his home in Roanoke. Kemiss was familiar with Greenbrier County. It was the home of one of the finest resorts on the east coast of the United States. He had spent many weekends there and the surrounding area was definitely remote enough to make a good hideout. That being the case though, the resort attracted many high profile guests and the cabin could easily be a getaway for someone entirely different, someone who had a legitimate reason for hiding their ownership of the property and who just enjoyed living off the grid for a few days here and there.

"There's one other thing that makes me a little more sure it's his," Ayers continued. "The name Kirkgrim, it's an Irish folk legend about a ghostly dog that protects graveyards, sir."

"Then it's him. It has to be. Make me a file with all the pertinent information on this place and forward it to my email," Kemiss said, deciding that whoever owned the cabin would just have to forgive him if he was wrong. "I'll handle it from here. Call me the minute you find anything else."

He closed the cell phone and returned it to his pocket. Who should he call now? If he called Kreft, then it was a certainty that whoever was at the cabin would be slaughtered, and if it wasn't the McIvers then that could cause even more trouble than they currently had. But if he called Robert Evers and had a team of federal agents raid the place, there was a chance the McIvers could be taken alive, and that was problematic as well. He picked up the receiver of the SCIP-enabled phone on his desk and allowed his finger to hover over the dial pad for a moment as he considered his options. Making a decision, he dialed a number and waited. "It's Kemiss," he said when the line was answered. "I think we've found him."

5:36 p.m. Eastern Time – Wednesday

County Route 141

Lake Sherwood, West Virginia

Constance gripped Declan's hand lightly as they pulled into the cabin's driveway. The last twenty four hours had been rough on them both, but they'd managed to get some sleep and had even risked a late afternoon trip to the town of Covington, Virginia, to pick up some supplies. While they were there, Declan had again used the wireless internet access at a small public library to find out the latest news on the manhunt for him. The efforts had now gone nationwide and the media coverage had grown more intense. On the various network websites he had seen photos of his house, quotes from his employees, who seemed beside themselves, and even an interview with the neighbor who took care of their dog whenever they were out of town. The entire scene made him dizzy. Even if he succeeded in identifying the people who had actually killed Abaddon Kafni and he and Constance were able to return to their normal lives, he wasn't sure there was going to be anything left to go back to.

"You don't think anyone recognized you, do you?" Constance asked.

He'd chosen to go to Covington instead of a closer town because, in his travels around the area over the years, he'd learned that the small city had a sizeable amount of Western European immigrants that had come to the area in search of employment at the large textile and paper mills that were the primary employers. Their presence meant that his accent wouldn't stand out as much, but he'd still been careful not to speak to anyone he didn't have to and he'd let Constance do the shopping while he waited in their car. Even driving her Nissan sports car at this point was a risk, but the only other option they had was the Trailblazer he'd stolen from a car lot the day before. It was a toss-up as to which vehicle would attract more attention.

"Nah," he said with a smile. "But I'm sure they recognized you. The most beautiful woman in the world doesn't walk into a store in backwater U.S.A. and not get recognized."

"Yeah, yeah," she said as she rolled her eyes and opened the car door.

As he got out of the car and followed her towards the cabin he was glad that the mood between them had begun to lighten. They'd always enjoyed a jovial relationship. He'd certainly done his share over the years to strain the marriage, but nothing made him feel worse than getting the cold shoulder from the person who had become his best friend.

"Let's go for a walk," Constance said, as she set down a bag of groceries on the porch. "It's almost warm out here tonight."

Declan stopped and scanned the shores of the lake that she was looking at. Seeing his reluctance, she said, "Did you try to contact your friends? The ones you said could help us."

"Aye, I left an e-mail for them. If news of what's going on has been picked up internationally, and I'm sure it has, they'll check it and be in contact. I'm sure of it. Now, what direction should we go in?" he said, clapping his hands loudly and rubbing them together. He was trying to be reassuring. He had, in fact, left word for Fintan McGuire and Shane O'Reilly and was sure they'd get back to him. The problem was when and how. In such a remote location they had no Internet access and would have to rely on periodic trips to the few libraries located in the region. The more he showed his face around, the more chances they had of getting caught, and trying to arrange travel out of the country with such limited contact wasn't going to be easy.

Half an hour later he wrenched his hand loose from his wife's and placed his arm over her back as they strolled slowly along a narrow path that wound its way around the remote mountain lake and through the many rhododendron thickets that sat along its shores. The sun had retreated behind the pine tree-covered Allegheny Mountains to the west and the path in front of them was growing steadily darker.

Constance brushed a hand through her auburn hair as the trail came to an end and the cabin came into view. "I'm not exactly suited to mountain life," she said, looking down at her sandals and wiggling her toes as if to say she wasn't smart enough to have worn the right shoes out of the house. The bottoms of her jeans were stained from the wet mud on the ground.

"Oh, I don't know," he said, looking down at her feet with a laugh. "You'd probably fit in better than you think. Ellie May never wore shoes either and she wrestled bears for honey. C'mon. Let's get back inside before you freeze. The temperature's dropping faster than the sun." He suddenly lifted her off the ground.

"Oh—Declan!" she protested, as he swung her over his shoulder and carried her like a wounded soldier.

As they walked across the uneven terrain she grunted loudly with every step he took, making it seem as if she was bouncing hard against his shoulder each time. Ten yards from the door, he stopped suddenly and lowered her to the ground.

"You're gonna pay for that," she said, slapping him playfully.

"Quiet," he said seriously, holding up his hand and looking off into the darkness.

She followed his gaze and a moment later watched as a pair of headlights shone through the thick forest and quickly disappeared again as a vehicle made its way over the highs and lows of the driveway.

"Who is it?" she asked. "Are you expecting someone?"

"No," he responded, as he withdrew a Glock pistol from his belt.

The headlights rose again, slowly washing over them. A twig snapped to their right and Declan knew he was too late.

"Put down the weapon!" a voice shouted from the darkness.

Professionals.
Declan knew by the way they'd positioned themselves, one at his three o'clock and the other at his seven. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could just make out the two men, each with M4 carbine assault rifles aimed for the kill. There was no way he could take them both and they knew it.

He didn't know how they'd found him, but they had. He should have moved on faster and been out of the area, but he'd allowed the remote location and his emergency preparations to lull him into a false sense of security. He hadn't wanted Constance to live a life on the run so he'd delayed their leaving as long as he could; now they were caught and he was cursing himself. Instead of living a life on the run, neither of them would be living at all.

"Put down the weapon!" the man at his three o'clock shouted again. "We're not here to hurt you!"

The headlights of the approaching vehicle rose over the last incline of the driveway and bathed the small clearing where the cabin stood in incandescent light.

"Well, you're sure as hell not here selling hoovers, old son," Declan said, keeping his arms straight by his side but not releasing the Glock from his grip. He stared straight ahead at Constance who stood perfectly still, her arms straight up in the air and her eyes darting from left to right looking at each of the men in turn.

"Like you said, bud, we're not here sellin'...whatever. Someone wants to have a chat with you, but he can't very well do that if he's got a gun stuck in his mug." The seven o'clock's accent was local, for sure, the voice deep and raspy, probably from years of smoking.

The approaching vehicle took the last left hand curve of the drive way and pulled to a stop next to Constance's Nissan Z, revealing itself to be a dark-colored late model mini-van with deeply tinted windows. The rear passenger side window in the cargo door came down with a low hum but revealed only darkness beyond. Declan heard the pneumatic hiss before he saw anything.

"Get down!" he said pushing Constance to the muddy surface of the driveway, but it was too late. As he dived on top of her a sharp pain stabbed the side of his neck. He pulled the dart out as he rolled onto his back and raised his pistol to fire, but the poison was acting fast. He'd pulled the trigger twice before he realized he was aiming at nothing, the shots echoing into the night. A black boot came from the darkness and pinned his arm at the wrist, holding his hand and the gun in it tight against the ground. Trying to fight through the fog that was steadily overtaking his mind, he brought his leg up to kick the kneecap of the man holding him. But instead of landing a crippling blow, he found his leg held above him at the ankle and twisted into a stress position by a second assaulter. His vision began coming in quick, blurry flashes.

"Damn. He's almost out. That's some good stuff."

The voice was a slow drawl, but Declan couldn't tell if it was a real accent or just the effects of the poison. "You bastards," he breathed as he felt himself losing consciousness.