Crashers (42 page)

He rose to his feet.

Daria kicked out her legs, caught O'Shea at the ankle. She cried out, the broken ends of her rib grinding together. O'Shea fell like a brick, landing on his ass, hands around his throat, eyes wide with terror. His chin, neck, and chest were coated in blood. Air bubbles popped around his lips as he tried to speak.

Daria braced herself on one elbow, knew that this would hurt them both, maybe equally, and drove the heel of her boot into O'Shea's balls. He grunted and rolled into the fetal position, his face red and puffy, eyes wide.

Daria was crying from the pain as she used the toe of her boot to nudge the Glock out of his belt. It hit the dust and she used her boot to crab the gun closer.

 

A car pulled into the parking lot and Donal O'Meara was on his feet in an instant, his Colt drawn. He moved the curtain a half inch and snuck a peek.

The newcomer drove a Lexus Coupe, a rooster tail of dust following. The door opened and Lucas Bell stepped out, wearing a casual, button-down shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled up, and sunglasses.

O'Meara smiled. “Friends in high places.”

“I hope Keith doesn't kill that bitch,” Feargal Kelly said, eyes on the football match.

“Sod it. O'Shea's a pro. And he's good at getting information from people. Especially women.”

O'Meara unlocked the door. In truth, he didn't have much use for rapists.
But then again, this was war. Soldiers didn't always get to pick the tools of their trade.

 

Daria heard a car door shut. She thought about yelling for help but squashed that notion immediately. It was either another ally of O'Meara's or an innocent bystander she'd manage to get killed.

It would have been easy enough to take O'Shea's gun and shoot the cuffs. Easy, but loud. Instead, she kept kicking him in the balls, paralyzing him until he asphyxiated from breathing his own blood. Then, grunting in pain, Daria used her feet to drag him closer. She undid his belt and removed it. As she had hoped, the tine of his buckle was almost exactly the right shape to pick the lock on her cuffs.

That took a couple of minutes. It took two more before she could rise shakily to her feet. Her head swam, bile rose in her throat. But she didn't fall over.

Picking up the empty water bottle, she let a few drops fall on her tongue. Tossed it aside, found the Glock. Daria stumbled toward the front office.

SHE PEEKED AROUND THE first corner. State Route 247 was vacant, little dust devils prancing across the tarmac, heat ripples distorting her vision.

Daria limped to the next corner and glanced into the parking lot. The motorcycles were gone. So was the van, leaving only two stolen Jeeps and a sleek, black sedan. She snuck around the corner, keeping her shoulder against the faded aluminum siding, and slid along the wall until she reached the office. She opened the door carefully, remembering that it had squeaked when she'd checked them in.

There was nobody behind the counter. Daria circled the counter, one hand holding the automatic, the other pressed gently against her snapped rib.

The manager lay on his back behind the counter, a neat hole in his forehead. From the pool of sticky blood and the buzzing of flies, she doubted that the exit wound was as tidy. He must have been shot while she was unconscious.

She stepped over the manager and into the apartment behind. Turned on the light. Conway Twitty began twanging from a cheap radio plugged into the same wall socket that worked the lights. She turned down the
music. There was a rocking chair next to it and a pile of
Reader's Digest
s. Other than having a tiny kitchen and a bedroom, the apartment was every bit as soulless as the rooms for rent.

Daria spotted the phone but, first things first, limped into the kitchen. The floor tiles were mushroom gray and peeled back at places. There had been a pattern to the wallpaper but it had faded into near nothingness. Daria found a cup of lukewarm coffee and tossed out its contents. She turned on the tap. Dull gray water gurgled out. She filled the cup, took a sip, gently letting it seep down her throat. If she drank too fast and coughed, her rib would punish her. The kitchen smelled of bad vegetables. An almost full pot of coffee had been left plugged in, the coffee obsidian black and smelling like it had been cooking for half the day.

She poured more water into the cup and dumped it over her head. It felt fantastic on her tender, red skin. She cupped water in her hand and splashed it softly onto her face, chest, and neck.

Revived, she limped back to the living room and eased herself down onto a stained sofa. She set down the gun, reached for the aged Princess phone. She thought about calling Ray Calabrese's cell but remembered that he was in Oregon, at that crash site. Daria's Mossad training had included memorization techniques. She tried the number to Ray's office.

 

The Irishmen turned when Lucas Bell's cell phone chimed. Lucas reached for it. He had rigged a call-forwarding from Ray Calabrese's office.

“Ray Calabrese's office.”

“This is Daria Gibron.”

His eyes went wide. He made the finger-to-the-lips gesture to shut up the others. Her voice sounded chalky.

“What? Wow. We'd given up hopes of hearing from you. It's me, Lucas.” He put his hand over the phone, but lightly, and said, “It's Ms. Gibron. Get Ray on the line, now. And trace this.” He removed his hand. “Ms. Gibron?”

A snarl on his features, Donal O'Meara drew his Colt and moved to the motel room door. Kelly followed, heading toward the front of the motel.

“Yes. We're outside a town called Boca Serpiente, in California.
Somewhere north and east of Los Angeles, in the desert. The Irishmen are here. They're making their stand.”

“I understand,” Lucas said. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. One of them told me they plan to crash a jetliner that passes overhead. I don't know how. They're armed to the teeth, handguns, shotguns, and one sniper rifle. And they said more cohorts are on their way. But this is the staging area. It happens here.”

“Got it,” Lucas said. “How'd you get free? Are you armed?”

“Yes, I have a gun. Where's Ray?”

“He's still in Oregon, checking out that crash. I'm leading a crack team your way right now. Are you in the same building as the Irishmen?”

“They're in a motel room. I'm in the front office.”

“And they're both armed?”

 

In the manager's apartment, Daria said, “Yes. I'm . . .”

And a certain, uncanny dread crept through Daria's skin, the chill almost counteracting the sting of the soft burns on her arms and stomach.

Both.
Lucas had known there were only two Irishmen left.

The door to the office squeaked. She caught a glimpse of fair hair. She raised the Glock and flicked off the safety in one motion, fired once. The head ducked back out the door.

She slammed down the phone.

 

In room 3 of the Land's End Motel, Lucas Bell hurled the cell phone onto the bed. “Goddammit!”

O'Meara and Kelly entered. O'Meara's eyes were narrow and cold. “You were right, O'Shea's dead.”

Kelly nodded. “Aye, and she's got his gun.”

“You fucking incompetents!” Lucas hissed.

O'Meara ground his teeth, the muscles along his jawline twitching.

Lucas pinched the bridge of his nose, willed himself to calm down. He looked at the two Irishmen. They looked back.

Lucas sighed. “Would you for God's sake cut the damn phone lines? Please?”

.   .   .

Daria lifted the receiver, heard a dial tone. She hit 911.

She kept the stolen gun aimed at the door, but was aware that she had windows to her left and right to worry about. Damn old-fashioned phone, she felt hobbled by the wire leading to the wall socket.

“Nine One One. Police, fire, or—”

The line went dead in her hands. She tossed the useless thing aside.

Took them long enough,
she groused to herself.
Amateurs.

THE SWAP-OUT VERMEER CRUISED along at 550 miles per hour, making splendid time. All four people on board wished the wide-body could go twice as fast.

Tommy and Ray had joined the other two on the flight deck. It was crowded, but they'd quickly grown bored, sitting in first class and waiting.

Kiki had been given a crash course on how to fly the jet, and then had asked Isaiah not to use the word
crash
for the rest of the flight. She didn't understand a tenth of the avionics equipment in front of her, but the global-positioning-system monitor was kith and kin to the locator system installed on her last nuclear sub. She quickly typed in their position and speed, and the screen glowed with a map of the western United States, a dotted line marking the route before them, a solid line the route behind.

After ten or fifteen minutes of listening to the engines rumble, Ray said, to no one in particular, “We're in good shape here. Right?”

Tommy shrugged. “I guess.”

Ray stuck a stick of gum into his mouth, waved the pack at Tommy, who took a slice.

They rode for another minute.

Ray hefted his right pant leg and exposed a small leather holster. He withdrew his backup weapon, a thin, matte-black Kahr K9. He checked to
see that it had a full load and returned it, saying, “So how come I feel like we're still in it up to our ears?”

“I've got that feeling, too,” Kiki said. “Like we're forget— Hold it. Got 'em.” She pointed one unvarnished fingernail at the GPS monitor. “Albion Air Flight Three Twenty-six. There are the delegates.”

Isaiah let his eyes flicker away from the mass of dials and sensors before him. “Holy crap.”

The others looked at him.

“Look at the transponder numbers. That's an Airbus A Three Eighty.”

“I've read about them,” Kiki said. “Supposed to be gargantuan. Holds five hundred people or more.”

“More,” Isaiah said. “The first generation is geared for all-economy flight. Shoehorn as many people aboard as possible and pay off the debt that it took to build these beasts.”

“Okay.” Tommy thought about it for a moment. “So how many folks on board?”

Isaiah said, “Full flight? Figure eight hundred plus.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Nope.” The pilot shook his head in awe. “I've lived in towns with smaller populations than that bird. They're lining up with the Rapids. We'll get to L.A. almost a half hour ahead of them.”

They rode along a little longer. Tommy rubbed at a kink in his neck. “You're right,” he said to Ray. “I got the feeling, too. What have we forgotten?”

When Dennis Silverman stepped down from the Gulfstream III, his first impression was the heat. It seeped into his lungs and made his eyes water.

“Oh, man,” he whined.

He dashed to the rented Jeep awaiting him, his shirt beginning to stain around the armpits before he stepped down to the bottom of the ladder.

Gamelan co-owner Alexi Jacobian reached into a desk drawer for an industrial-size bottle of Tums. He tossed five into his palm and popped them into his mouth, chewing.

“I do not believe this,” Jacobian moaned, eyeing the Employee of the Month wooden plaque just outside his office. “Are you positive?”

Susan Tanaka said, “Yes. Absolutely.”

He cradled his head in his hands. “Maybe you missed something. Maybe—”

Peter Kim said, “Do you own a corporate jet?”

“Yes. A Gulfstream.”

“Does it have a Gamelan FDR?”

“Of course.”

Peter said, “Then I can crash it. Want to see?” His tone was brusque, unfriendly. That's why Susan had brought him along. In the land of the Geek Gods, engineer-speak was the lingua franca.

Jacobian groaned and threw three more Tums into his mouth. “The irony is, Dennis has the jet. He flew to California this afternoon.”

Susan cursed herself silently. She should have suggested looking for a private jet, after the police had failed to find Silverman at any of the regional airports.

“This is insane. Do you know what this will do to my company?”

Susan's eyes narrowed. Her first instinct was to blow up at him for being so unfeeling. Instead, she said, “Of course, your assistance with this investigation will be duly noted. I'll make sure the media is aware of your help.”

He brightened a little at that. “Anything. Name it.”

“We need to find Mr. Silverman. Do you know where he went?”

Jacobian said, “Sure. California.”

Peter's voice dropped half an octave. “Could you be a little less specific? We'd like this to be a challenge.”

Jacobian reddened. “I don't know where his conference was. I didn't ask. But I know where the Gulfstream is.”

“You do?”

“Sure. I told you, it has a Gamelan recorder on board.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Of course. They can track the Gamelans. I should have realized that.”

Jacobian rose. “Come on. I'll show you.”

Ray Calabrese checked his watch. It was going on 6
P.M.
He knelt and yanked a box from under the flip-down seat. It contained a variety of
survival equipment, including a flare gun, heavy field glasses, a portable compass, and military-style food rations. He sorted through the inventory, hoping not to need any of it.

Tommy's satellite-comm link chirped. “Tomzak.”

“Tommy, Susan. We tracked down Dennis Silverman. He landed in Victorville.”

Tommy pointed to Kiki's ear. She adjusted the controls on her belt and tapped in to their frequency. “Susan? It's Kiki. Say that again.”

She did, and Kiki punched data into the GPS monitor to her left. The airfield outside Victorville, not far from George Air Force Base, glowed.