Bad Nights (12 page)

“He was a professor too?” Max asked.

“No, an aerospace engineer. The way I heard it, she was thinking of selling. Now she's got nothing to sell but the land. And a big mess to boot.”

“They can probably bulldoze it under,” Max said.

“Might be best,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “Too bad, because it was built before the Civil War. Supposed to have been a stop on the Underground Railroad.”

“You think she was at home when the place burned?”

“I heard her car's there.”

“What about her?”

“She's missing. Could have burned up, of course.”

Max nodded. “Did she have any enemies?”

Mrs. Sweeney looked at him. “What are you—a cop or something?”

“No. Just wondering,” he answered.

“Well, you all be careful out in the woods. No telling what you can run into these days.”

“We'll be careful,” Shane answered.

“Here's the key to number fifteen. It's a right nice unit. The last one on the left down the road through our property.”

“Thanks.” He waited a beat. “We're probably leaving early. Can we pay now?”

“Sure.”

Shane paid by credit card and took the key.

When they climbed back into the car, Max said, “Sorry about that last question. I got into it.”

Shane shrugged. “It's done.”

“But I called attention to us.”

“It probably won't matter,” Shane said as he drove over to their cabin.

Max was silent for several moments, then changed the subject. “It sounds like Professor Rains ran into Jack, and the militia attacked.”

“That's making a big assumption.”

“Why would someone firebomb the house of a widowed professor?”

“Some kid didn't like his grade?” Max asked.

Shane snorted. “Yeah, right. Kids weren't so violent in our day. Now I can almost believe that one would come hunting his teacher with a gun.”

“More likely they'd gun her down in her office.”

“We'll start at the house in the morning, then see if we can figure out where Jack and Rains went.”

“You think they're together?”

“I'd bet on it. And there's some stuff we can do tonight.”

“You mean a computer search on the professor?” Max asked.

“Yes.”

Wade Trainer brought his men back to the compound. They were used to working hard, but the long day's activities had worn them out. They'd had plenty of training exercises, but this was their first real tactical mission, and they'd acquitted themselves pretty well.

When they reached headquarters, he decided to keep the routine as normal as possible.

“You did well today.”

He saw his troops preen from the praise and thought about how easy it was to get men to follow his vision. You just had to be sure of your values and drum them into willing minds.

“Showers for everyone,” he ordered. “Then clean uniforms. Be ready for inspection in forty-five minutes.”

The men hopped to it, and he smiled in satisfaction as he noted their discipline.

He'd left ten men back here to guard the camp. Tomorrow he'd take all but five with him, because there was almost no chance of Barnes doubling back and attacking the compound.

He'd pick five from yesterday and use all of the fresh troops.

While they were getting ready for the inspection, he checked out the compound. It gave him considerable satisfaction to look at what he'd created here. The old camp buildings were transformed into neat barracks, where his men slept eight to a room. And he had two buildings that hadn't even been used yet.

The new structures were steel buildings that he'd bought from a place that sold them online. The men had assembled them. They were sturdy enough to withstand an assault with conventional weapons, and he'd made sure that they had good locks. Not that he thought anyone here would dare to try and get into them. But now he had to worry about outside forces assaulting the compound.

The old dining room was the mess hall and the assembly area. The infirmary was also a holdover from the camp days, but he'd put in more modern equipment. He had an EMT named Philips and a male physician's assistant named Wentworth whom he'd recruited to man the facility. They'd X-rayed Chambers' leg and set it. He went over there to find out how the man was doing, then walked around the camp.

Finally, he gave himself twenty minutes to relax on his bunk. To tell the truth, all the running around had worn him out. He didn't like to think that he was losing his edge, but he found that he wasn't able to keep going all day the way he once had. Was there something that Wentworth, the physician's assistant, could give him? He didn't want to ask because that would show weakness.

He heaved himself up in time for the inspection, pleased that he didn't have to give any demerits. While the men were eating, he went back to his office.

He was surprised to find a voice mail message from the man who was bankrolling the militia operation. Had he gotten wind of the day's activities? And if so, how?

Wishing he didn't have to call him back and give a report, Wade sat down at his desk.

He and his moneyman had met by chance at a rally in downtown D.C. where people had gathered to protest the war in Afghanistan. They'd gotten to talking and ended up leaving the rally together. Over sangria and tapas at a restaurant on Seventh Street, they'd kept up the conversation, both of them agreeing that the government was getting too big and ineffective and was using their tax dollars for the wrong things. That is, when it could get anything done at all.

Congress was dysfunctional, and the President was too weak to head the most important country on earth. It set his teeth on edge that the United States of America was losing its position in the world. The government needed to be jolted back into awareness, but one man acting on his own was bound to get caught.

Back then, Wade had been working as a security guard in a downtown office building. He was already in his late fifties and secretly disgusted with his life. He was divorced twice. With no children, thankfully. And his biggest career hope was that he'd get to be head of security in the company where he worked, which wasn't likely because the boss's son-in-law, a smug son of a bitch who thought he knew more than Wade, was probably going to get the job.

Wade had been entertaining secret fantasies about killing the guy. Until he connected with Mr. Money, and his fantasies changed dramatically. They met several more times, exchanging political views and then cautiously discussing what could be done to remedy the situation.

When Wade felt confident enough to finally venture that Timothy McVeigh had the right idea about teaching the government a lesson, his new friend had agreed.

“It would take a man with guts to pull off something like that in this climate,” Mr. Money said. “Especially if they did it in D.C., not in the middle of the country.”

Wade felt his excitement build. “It would take money too. One of McVeigh's problems was that he was trying to do it with a very small team. If he'd had the right financing and a disciplined organization behind him, he could have gotten away with it.”

Mr. Money nodded. “You know anybody with the balls to attack the U.S. Government?”

Wade sat forward. “I've got the balls.”

“Do you have an organization?”

“No, but I can build one.”

“How long would it take?”

“I'd have something going in six months. It would take a year to have something effective.”

“Let's talk about it some more. What do you think you'd need?”

Wade had been thinking about it. “A place where I could set up a military base and the money to outfit it.”

“Maybe you should start looking.”

He recalled that conversation as he reached for the phone to contact his benefactor. He'd have to ring twice and hang up—then wait for the other guy to get back to him. The man obviously didn't want anyone to know about his subversive activities. In fact, Wade was pretty sure he didn't even know the guy's real name. He was making it clear that he was invisible as far as reality was concerned, but not in terms of resources. He'd come through with money to buy the old camp that Wade was using. He'd bought equipment to go with it. They'd sat together for strategy sessions where they'd discussed Wade's first big attack. And most important, Mr. Money had been able to vet recruits before they joined the militia. That had given Wade confidence in each and every one of his men. But somehow Jack Barnes had slipped through the cracks. Which meant that Wade couldn't take all the blame for the fiasco with Barnes.

He squared his shoulders. Really, why should he take any of the blame? His money guy had access to a bunch of sophisticated databases, and Wade had relied on the man to make sure everybody was on the up-and-up.

***

Jack slept fitfully, with his legs alternately stretched out or drawn up to his chin and his back propped against the hard stone of the cave wall. Of course, he shouldn't be sleeping at all. He should be keeping watch, but he didn't think Trainer would send his men out at night.

After he and Morgan had both gone out for another call of nature, being careful not to trip the booby trap he'd set at the cave entrance, he'd returned to his place across from Morgan, leaning against the cave wall while she stayed in the sleeping bag, because he didn't want a repeat of the intimacy that had flared between them when they'd slept pressed together.

He kept drifting to the side and jerking awake, glad she couldn't see him in the blackness.

He woke with a start when he thought he heard the sound of a mountain lion in the darkness, but it was far off, and he relaxed again, glancing toward the sleeping bag. It was too dark to see Morgan, but he was very aware of her. He thought he could hear her even breathing in the darkness. He imagined her lying curled on her side. Imagined the curves of her body that had felt so tempting when they'd been pressed together. He could have made love with her. Maybe he should have. He could justify it as a bonding experience. Only he knew he was kidding himself. Afterward she'd think he had taken advantage of her, and that would be the truth.

He pushed thoughts of lovemaking away and focused on the practicalities of staying alive. Morgan had done well yesterday. He hoped she was up for a fast march through the woods to the road. They'd have to hitch a ride—and be careful that they didn't flag down the wrong driver. She'd brought money, which meant he could find a pay phone and contact Rockfort. He laughed softly. If there were any pay phones left in a world where everyone carried his own cell.

He felt himself teetering somewhere between sleep and waking. And as his mind swam in that twilight state, a name popped into his head. G. Washington.

G. Washington. That snapped him awake with a start.

George Washington. The man who had led the Continental Army against the British. The first President of the United States.

Why was he thinking about
him
now?

He had no real answer, yet he had the sudden sense that the name meant something else. Something important that he needed to remember.

He'd been half-asleep. If he let himself slip into that state again, would the meaning of the name come to him?

With a sigh, he tried it again, letting himself drift, trying to come up with some insights. But there was no way to force a connection.

Instead of coming up with anything, he slept.

***

As promised, Shane and Max were up before dawn and ate a quick breakfast of power bars and coffee in their room. They'd used Google to get the location of Morgan Rains' house, and they'd also searched for information on the professor. They found that she taught in the Psychology Department of George Mason University. She was a good-looking thirty-year-old woman with chin-length blond hair and blue eyes, the widow of an engineer who got shot in a robbery. There was a full account of the crime in an article in
The
Washington
Post.

“Tough for her,” Max had said. “And now it looks like she's in trouble again. Worse than before because this time she's the one who could get killed.”

“I'd like to know how she got hooked up with Jack.”

“Hopefully we'll find out.”

Neither one of them said the other half of the thought. They'd find out—if she and Jack were still alive.

As they drew near the vicinity of the burned house, Shane slowed the Jeep.

“A lot of SUVs parked in the woods,” Max commented. “You think they're from the militia?”

“Unless the fire department's back in force—with all the guys driving their own cars.”

Shane swore under his breath. “Cunningham warned us not to tip Trainer off.”

“Which is why this Cherokee is registered to my sister,” Max said. He looked toward the SUVs, trying not to be obvious.

“Nobody's there. They must all be out looking for Jack and Ms. Rains.”

Shane found a spot to turn around and headed in the other direction. He parked a quarter-mile down the road, and they trotted back, carrying their fishing poles and tackle boxes which contained their guns and other equipment that they might need.

They made their way cautiously through the woods and stopped short when they saw a squad of men dressed in fatigues walking smartly away from the ruined house. About a hundred yards from the house, the men split up, some going right, others left. A third group went straight ahead.

Hanging back, the Rockfort agents waited until the troops were out of sight.

“If they knew where to find Jack and Rains, they wouldn't have to split up,” Max whispered.

“They probably have a better idea where to look than we do,” Shane answered.

“Too bad we can't follow all of them.”

Mentally flipping a coin, Shane answered, “You take the ones on the right. I'll take the middle group.”

“I think it's better to stay together,” Max answered.

Shane considered the problem as he scanned the surrounding area and the mountains beyond. “We could miss them entirely.”

“But one of us can't take on the militia.”

Shane nodded. “Okay. Let's head down the middle.”

***

Gray light was filtering in through the cave mouth when Jack woke again and ran his hand through his hair. He was stiff from sleeping sitting up and from the activities of the day before, but he knew it had been the right thing to do. The good news was that he could see out of his left eye again and hadn't had any more flashbacks from the torture session. Instead he remembered the shreds of a dream. He'd been one of George Washington's troops in his Continental Army.

He snorted. Well, that was a great way to escape from his present circumstances. But before that, G. Washington had popped into his head, and he didn't think it was really a reference to the first President.

He'd planned to ask Morgan if the George Washington reference meant anything to her when he looked over at the sleeping bag and froze.

She wasn't there.

Had she done something stupid, like run away? Or had she just gone outside to relieve herself—and not wakened him to say where she was going?

Cursing under his breath, he scanned the area, seeing that she'd left her pack—and everything else. Which meant she hadn't intended to take off, he hoped.

So he just had to worry about her getting into trouble outside on her own.

He stood, wincing at the sudden movement. Pulling up his shirt, he looked at his burns and decided they were healing, and when he inspected his arm, he found the bite marks had improved too. Luckily there seemed to be no infection.

As quickly as he could, he walked to the place where they'd left their wet jeans. Hers were gone. His were still there—and almost dry. He kicked off his shoes so he could pull the pants on, grimacing as the stiff fabric chafed against the burns on his thighs.

He shoved the shoes back on and headed for the cave mouth, wondering what the hell he was going to do now. When he spotted Morgan running back across the clearing, relief washed over him—until he saw the look of panic on her face.