Assassin's Express (11 page)

Jessica had wanted to leave as soon as O'Hara's car had gotten out of sight, but Frost instead had taken her by the hand and started toward the trees with her, explaining he trusted O'Hara, that O'Hara was smart despite the crazy talk, and that O'Hara was one of the best men with a gun Frost had seen. All three attributes, with O'Hara on their side, could make getting her to Washington a lot easier—Texas was at best halfway there.

The day was becoming progressively warmer, despite the fact that it was late afternoon by the time O'Hara's car turned off the road and came into the clearing. Jessica had slept—Frost hadn't, not trusting the girl to stay, thinking she might bolt and run assuming O'Hara would be coming back with reinforcements and bent on killing her. As Frost saw O'Hara's car now, he shook the girl by her shoulders; she'd been dreaming—talking in her sleep, half in Russian, half in English. Frost spoke no Russian, but the English words had chilled him. The dream she'd been having apparently had dealt with changing back to her own identity, as if two women—one who spoke Russian and one who spoke English—were fighting inside her. Frost shook her again to awaken her, feeling at least mildly sorry for her and also feeling mildly terrified. He was coming to the conclusion that the girl might be mentally disturbed—there' d been ample reason for it, he realized. But if she were, getting her safely across the country would become even more difficult. As he watched O'Hara climbing out of his car, Frost shook her once again. She was starting to wake up. A chill ran up Frost's spine; his whole body shook with it. What if O'Hara were right, what if Deacon had been suckered, what if the girl were an assassin and Frost was just bringing her to the President's doorstep?

“What—ohh, Frost.” She smiled, looking up at him.

“You've been dreaming,” the one-eyed man told her, smiling down at her head on his shoulder.

“What's up—?”

“O'Hara's back. He's even smiling. Let's go see him—huh?”

Frost started to his feet, the girl standing up beside him and stretching like a lazy cat. As he snatched up his pack, he felt her hand on his arm. “Frost—let's run. We don't need O'Hara. We don't—”

“It'll be all right,” Frost reassured her. “Come on.” Holding the girl by her right hand, Frost led her out of the trees and back across the open field. O'Hara spotted them; the lean, lantern-jawed FBI man waved. O'Hara was in his early or middle forties, Frost recalled. He wondered what the man had been like in his twenties—the thought almost scared Frost.

“Comin' O'Hara,” Frost shouted across the muddy track; O'Hara nodded back and leaned against the right front fender of the FOUO car.

“Hank—are you sure we can—?”

“Yeah. O'Hara's straight. Listen—it's O.K.,” Frost told her again. They were almost within earshot of O'Hara now.

In order to help the girl over a deadfall tree that someone apparently had dragged into the field, Frost shifted his pack a little in his right hand, then climbed the low grade up to where O'Hara was parked. Frost judged the air temperature to be in the mid-fifties at least—the thought of that Arcticlike blizzard the previous night still amazed him. They stopped beside the car, Frost setting the pack on the trunk lid.

“Well, well—glad you waited, Frost—really proud of you.”

Frost looked at O'Hara, saying nothing.

“When I was following Chevasnik and Gorn in from Dallas the word was that Jessica Pace was an assassin—right?”

“Yeah.” Frost nodded.

“Well—I called Calvin Plummer. Took me some time to get through to him. Found out I don't even have the right security clearance to talk to him. I never liked Plummer much from what I heard about him. Finally got to talk with him, anyway. I like the guy even less now—he's a creep, with a capitol K. But he's one of the biggees, good friend of the President, the whole nine yards.”

“So—what'd he say,” Frost persisted.

“Well—funny thing. He told me to do something I didn't want to do and I lost my temper—told him to go to hell. You know, in some states using profanity over a telephone system when a female operator might possibly be listening in can get you tossed in the slam.”

“Wonderful—what'd he say?” Frost asked again, feeling edgy.

“Well—” Suddenly O'Hara's hands were moving, the little Model 60 Smith O'Hara carried in an ankle holster appearing magically out of the sleeve of his windbreaker. Frost started moving for his gun, but O'Hara snapped, “Don't, Frost—I don't wanna smoke ya, but I will.”

Frost eased his hands down to his sides, feeling Jessica Pace more than seeing her as she tensed beside him. “What'd he say, O'Hara?”

“Well—Calvin Plummer gave me a direct order—actually I didn't tell him to go to hell; I told him where he could stick his direct order. Told me to kill you, put the girl on ice some place quiet, and call in for further orders.” O'Hara snapped back the hammer on the little stainless-steel Chief's Special, the muzzle of the snubby gun pointing straight out at Frost's head.

“You gonna do it?”

“Not unless I gotta, buddy—no. I'm a cop, not a lousy hit man. Now—do the acrobat number against the car. You've been frisked before, Frost.”

“No,” Frost said emotionlessly.

“What do you mean, no?”

“What else did Plummer say?”

“Said she was an assassin and that if I apprehended her I'd get a big promotion.”

“Is that why you have the gun out?” Frost asked.

“No—what the hell do I need with a promotion? I'm just doin' my job and arresting a pair of suspects. But I'll kill ya if I gotta, Ace!”

“I know you will,” Frost said quietly. “I wouldn't expect you to do anything else. I'm telling you that as far as I understand, this woman is working for Plummer. Maybe Plummer gave you some kind of cover story because your security clearance wasn't high enough; maybe he figures 1'm more trouble than I'm worth and the operation is better off with me dead. I don't know why he told you what he told you.”

“You believe this routine?”

“Yeah,” Frost insisted.

“I don't. Personally, I think you're a dupe of the Commies—they don't call 'em old maestros of deceivin' people for nothin'. They got you thinkin' you're doin' this all for Old Glory and Mom's apple pie. Well, listen, I'll go to bat for you at the trial.”

“You arrest me, there won't be any trial. Plummer will have me killed, probably have you killed, then get Jessica to Washington to spill her list just like she's supposed to.”

“Bullshit—Plummer may be some kind of superspook, but he can't run around knockin' people off—especially a fed.” O'Hara jerked his left thum back toward his chest.

“You know,” Frost smiled, “thanks for reminding me you're a fed.” Frost took a fast step toward O'Hara, keeping his hands in the open and not moving for his gun. O'Hara did just what Frost thought he would—backstepped fast, snapped the muzzle of the Chief's Special up into the air and fired a warning shot. Frost dove into him, Frost's right shoulder impacting into O'Hara's gut; the revolver firing again as Frost and O'Hara went down into the mud.

Frost's left fist drove up and right, crossing O'Hara's chin; the FBI man's head snapped back, Frost's right hand vised around O'Hara's gun-hand wrist. Frost felt something hammering into his stomach, rolled left, and dragged O'Hara's gun hand with him. Frost's left knee smashed up into O'Hara's right elbow; the gun fell from O'Hara's hand into the mud. Frost rolled over the gun, onto his knees, then up on his feet.

O'Hara was climbing up out of the mud. “You wanna finish this with hands, Ace—or do you and me play quick-draw with the shoulder rigs?”

Frost watched O'Hara rubbing his right elbow. “I break the elbow?”

“Naw—but you made the old college try with it.”

“Hands.” Frost smiled. Inside him, Frost wasn't about to shoot at O'Hara no matter what happened and he realized O'Hara felt the same—the thing in Canada where they'd fought the terrorists together, been shot up together . . . O'Hara had even saved Frost's life, too.
¹

“O.K.—hands. Let's do, Frost—”

O'Hara started across the two yards of muddy ground separating them in a dead rush, both arms extended for Frost's throat. Frost sidestepped, his right foot flashing up and out as he wheeled half-left. Too late, Frost realized O'Hara had suckered him, had known that with a high attack Frost would come in with a low counterattack. Frost felt O'Hara's hands on his ankle, felt himself losing his balance and went down hard into the mud, feeling something—O'Hara's foot, Frost guessed—hammering into his left rib cage. Frost rolled left, edging back across the mud, climbing to his feet. O'Hara was grinning ear to ear. “Score one for the good guys, Ace!”

Frost started for O'Hara, planning to sucker O'Hara the way the FBI man had suckered him. Out of the corner of his eye, Frost could see Jessica Pace, the silenced Walther .38 in her right hand, the gun coming on line. Frost sidestepped, shouting to her, “No!” He dove for her gun hand, knocking the pistol off line. The gun fired, its slide as it opened out of battery closing and hitting the palm of Frost's right hand. Frost sucked in his breath hard against the pin; his left fist crossed his body at an awkward angle and punched into the girl's right forearm. The gun fell from her hand to the ground. Frost wheeled, shoving her back onto her rear end in the mud, then wheeled again toward O'Hara, less than six feet from him, hands spread, his body in a half crouch, ready to continue the fight. “I owe you one, Frost—but I still gotta do what I gotta do.”

Frost sidestepped, snatching up the Walther. O'Hara's eyes froze for a minute on the gun. Frost tossed it through the half-open driver's side window of the car, onto the seat. “O.K.?”

“You're a wonderful person.” O'Hara laughed, then came at Frost low. The one-eyed man half-wheeled, sidestepping, and, his back half-turned to O'Hara, his right fist hammered forward to straight-arm O'Hara on the left side of his face.

The tall, lean FBI man crashed down like a tree. Frost dived onto him, his knees impacting against the FBI man's stomach as he rolled away. While O'Hara started picking himself up, he got to his feet and edged back. “That,” O'Hara groaned, straightening up, “was a good one—I'll remember it though so don't try it again.”

As O'Hara started to move, Frost feigned a low kick. When the FBI man reacted, Frost wheeled 360 degrees and hooked his left fist out toward O'Hara's jaw; Frost's knuckles almost screamed at him as he made the solid connection. The FBI man reeled. Frost stepped inside the sinking guard, his right streaking forward in a short jab to the solar plexus. O'Hara doubled over. Frost's left crossed O'Hara's jaw line; the knuckles were bleeding when Frost caught momentary sight of his hand.

O'Hara was falling back; Frost shot another low, straight jab into his stomach. As O'Hara doubled over, half-dropping to his knees, the knife edge of Frost's left hand flashed downward, catching O'Hara just behind the right ear. Frost stepped back; O'Hara crumpled to the ground.

Frost turned around, O'Hara unconscious on the ground behind him. Frost could see Jessica Pace, the Walther PPK/S in her tiny fists, the muzzle on line with O'Hara's head. “I pulled the chain on him—put the gun away.”

Frost stepped between the woman and the unconscious O'Hara. “Hank—I'll shoot you, too!”

Frost, his breathing still labored, his left fist feeling like a toothache, rasped between gasps for air, “You shoot me, unless you get me between the eyes—which would be impossible,” and he tugged at his eye patch with his right hand, “I'll get the Browning out and pump you full of it, kid—we don't kill O'Hara!”

“He's with them—you can see that!”

“Could have killed both of us a couple of times, couldn't he? But he didn't. For God's sake, girl—think!” Frost started toward her, fumbling for a cigarette with his aching left hand.

“He'll come after us—then what?” Her voice was shrill, bordering on hysteria, Frost thought.

“I'll fix his guns so he can't use 'em, we'll steal his car—he won't catch us, Jessica. Now put down the gun—now!”

The woman edged back, the muzzle of the silencer unmoving. Frost watched her eyes. “You really got this loyalty trip pretty bad, don't you?” she said, her voice finally sounding under control.

“Yeah—maybe,” Frost told her. “Put the gun down!”

Frost watched her moving her right thumb against the slide-mounted safety, then the gun lowered and she slipped it under her muddy sweater in front of her belly.

“You're crazy,” she said emotionlessly.

Frost shrugged, turning his back on her, and walked over to O'Hara to check that the man was still breathing. Frost straightened him out on the ground, thumbed back his eyelids. “He should be out for about ten minutes or so—he's gonna be O.K.”