My Spy (41 page)

Particularly Ms. O'Toole.

His eyes narrowed as a big man stepped out of the cruiser. He recognized that chapped face and the stocky body.

“Evening.” The sheriff bent down to the window. “May I see your driver's license?”

“Sure, officer.” The man who called himself Dooley handed over the fake, secure in the knowledge that it would pass scrutiny. All of his driver's licenses were excellent. “Wasn't speeding, was I?”

Cool eyes ran over the plastic ID, then checked out the interior of the van.

“Not speeding.” The burly sheriff handed back his license. “I'm afraid we've got a problem with the road up ahead. You were up at the O'Toole place fixing the whirlpool, weren't you?”

He nodded. “Problem with the intake filter. Happens a lot.”

The sheriff leaned closer, pointing to the north. “The bridge is out. You'll need to take another route.”

“Heck.” He rubbed his neck, glad that irritation would be expected under the circumstances.

“Where are you headed?”

It was a friendly question, and he made his lie equally friendly. “Lost Meadow. A warranty customer up there just blew out a master pump. The man swore he'll have my job if I'm not there before dark.”

The sheriff nodded slowly. “In that case you'll need to head back south and take a left at the first light. That will take you to the freeway.”

“South. First light, take a left. Got it. Thanks a lot. Better watch out for that storm.” He smiled innocently. “It looks like a killer.”

“Sure will.” The sheriff stepped away from the car and waved calmly, unaware of how close he had come to dying.

B
UZZ
WATCHED
THE
VAN
BACK
UP,
THEN
TURN
AROUND.
NICE fellow. He seemed to know his job, too.

Only thing was, he said he was headed south, but the map on the seat beside him was open to the rugged terrain along the national forest, which was nowhere near Lost Meadow.

Probably just a coincidence.

He was getting too old for this work, Buzz thought. His knee ached and his back was stiff again. What he needed was a Thermos full of hot coffee and a few egg salad sandwiches.

He watched the red lights of the van fade down the road into the streaming rain. Maybe he was too old and too paranoid, but the memory of the map was bothering him.

Frowning, he picked up his radio.

T
HE
MAN
IN
THE
GRAY
UNIFORM
WAS
SWEATING.
HE
KEPT
HIS eyes on the rearview mirror as he gripped his Browning just out of sight on his lap.

Always prepared.

But the sheriff didn't follow, and that was good.

His breath came easier as he rolled south, obeying all the traffic signs, careful to creep just under the speed limit. With every mile his excitement grew.

He'd always liked tests, always liked being better and faster and smarter than anyone around him.

He rubbed his wrist, which was hurting again. Hell of a thing to get lit up by lightning. Years ago, but he remembered the storm like yesterday. Sometimes he thought the lightning had changed him, opening his eyes to how easy it was to get what you wanted if you were willing to hurt a few people. He'd been sick for three months afterward, half of them spent in the hospital. His father hadn't been around, but that was nothing new.

He frowned, trying to remember how he'd been before the lightning, but all he could think about was getting the job done. As rain sluiced down, he remembered the sharp smell of
ozone and the sudden explosive crack that had made his hair stand on end just before he'd been struck to the ground, more dead than alive.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel and sweat trickled under his shirt. No nerves, he thought. Nerves weren't allowed. This was business, old business.

He'd missed McKade once, down in Mexico. He'd missed him again in D.C. when the SEAL had sprinted out of his crosshairs and jumped on that out-of-control bus. McKade wasn't going to get lucky a third time.

Not tonight.

Once McKade was lying in a pool of blood, the program could continue, moving to even bigger targets.

Meanwhile, he would have a substantial account well hidden under the name of a dummy corporation in the Caymans.

He was sweating more now. It made him angry so he took out his gun again because it felt solid and cool and calmed him down.

Up ahead, a black Jeep came into view, idling beneath an oak tree. He cruised to the shoulder and cut off his lights.

Game over, he thought as thunder growled like an old friend. There in the hammering rain he cradled his gun and waited for the rest of his team.

S
AM
SCANNED
THE
DARKNESS
TENSELY.
EVEN
WITH HIS
Nightvision goggles he saw nothing on the move.

Lightning jumped coldly through the sky as he fingered his cell phone. “Izzy, are you there?”

Static snapped, then Izzy's voice came through. “Some serious gusting up here. The good news is that nothing's moving. The bad news is, I almost got hit by lightning a few minutes ago.”

“Keep your powder dry and your head down.”

“I'm trying. Annie okay?”

“Just fine. Donegal's with her.” Another bolt of lightning hammered the trees at the top of the hill, filling the line with hellish static.

“Izzy, you there?”

“—check them first to see—”

“Izzy, do you read me?”

“—could be only—”

More static snarled over the line. “Hello?” When he heard no answer, Sam flipped off the phone in disgust. Light filtered through the windows, casting pale squares of silver over the porch as he scanned the rocky slope beyond the lawn.

Inch by inch he scanned the slope again. There might have been something out beneath the branches of the third oak tree. Probably it was foliage tossing in the wind.

Sam fingered his cell phone again. “Izzy, are you there?”

There was nothing but wild crackling.

Sam cursed softly. The last thing they needed was to be cut off from each other. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and he felt a sharp pricking at his neck.

A second later lightning hit a tree, snapping a branch not thirty feet from where he stood.

The pools of silver on the porch blinked, then vanished, and Sam turned to see the house plunged into darkness.

He forced himself to relax, knowing it would take a few seconds for the backup generator to kick in. Over the howl of the wind he saw a movement through the study windows as Annie emerged from the kitchen, carrying a flashlight.

Abruptly the power returned, bathing the house in light.

One problem solved.

Sam tried to raise Izzy again, but with no success. Irritated, he glanced at the luminous dial of his watch.

Three minutes. If he hadn't raised Izzy by then, he was going out to find him.

He was raising his night goggles when he heard a sound behind him.

A
NNIE
SAT
HUDDLED
IN
A
BLANKET
WITH DONEGAL
PERCHED alertly beside her. Firelight warmed the Chinese carpet and fieldstone mantel, but any sense of peace was shattered by the next angry crack of lightning.

When Sam didn't return, she went upstairs and tugged on jeans and a thick sweater, then returned to pace uneasily before the windows. Donegal prowled right beside her, looking up expectantly, as if waiting for some command.

As rain battered at the big porch the chill grew, creeping through her heavy clothes. For distraction she went to the kitchen for a strong cup of tea. When she returned, Donegal was standing at the front door, ears pricked, body tense.

Thunder boomed, rolling heavily over the house. In the flare of a distant bolt of lightning, Annie saw movement down the hillside.

A tree bent beneath the wind?

Suddenly Donegal's muzzle rose. Growling softly, he looked up at Annie, then scratched at the door.

“Out?”

He barked twice, then resumed his scratching.

“You want to go out to Sam, don't you? Is that it, Donegal?”

The big dog raced to her side, caught the bottom of her sweater in his teeth, and tugged her toward the door.

“Message received.” Annie pushed open the heavy door, squinting into a sheet of rain. “Go on.”

Donegal shot out onto the porch, and in seconds he was swallowed up by the darkness. As the wind hurled rain at An-nie's face, she tried not to shiver.

SAM'S
WEAPON
WAS
DRAWN
BEFORE
HE
CROUCHED.

“Commander, don't shoot. Izzy sent me to find you.”

Sam straightened slowly, recognizing one of Izzy's handpicked support team. He had studied the pictures of the six men scattered over the mountain, but with communications out, there was no way to tell where they were now.

“You're Weaver, aren't you?”

“Yes, sir. lzzy sent me up to check the house. The storm's playing havoc with our communications.”

“Same up here.”

“Izzy said—” The big man waited for a roll of thunder to pass before continuing. “Izzy said I should plan to check in with you visually every half hour until the phones are operational.”

It was a good plan, even if it was cumbersome, and a lot could happen between one check-in and the next. The storm definitely limited their options.

Sam stood just out of the wind at the edge of the porch, scanning the dense upper slope of the mountain. If an infiltration was planned, it would most likely come through there, where the groundcover was thickest.

Seeing a movement near the top of the hill, he drew back under the porch and swept the area with his goggles. This time all he could make out was branches skittering in the greenish glow of the background.

It reminded him of another place and time.