Paradise Falls (56 page)

Unbelievable, unbearable, to see
him
there, alive, walking, breathing, in such company. Shaken to the core, Jacob put it out of his head. He was on step three, that was step nine hundred. He would make his play against James and Elliot Katzenberg later. It was time to blow it all wide open. Show his hand.

The Crash Dive protocol. Jacob set everything up in advance. Every forty-eight hours he hit a dead man’s switch that reset a timer. If the timer ever counted down to zero, everything would go. His money would be reshuffled away from his personal accounts, the drives and data at the house would be wiped, and copies of all his findings. Every clue he followed, ever discovery he made, would be distributed by the hundreds.

He would send them to mainstream media outlets even if he didn’t trust them, but to bloggers, Wikileaks, other politicians, anybody that might do something. Tonight they would know that James Katzenberg was tied to the collapse, even if he didn’t have absolute, concrete proof yet. They would know about the Leviathans, about the weapons, everything.

None of that mattered now. Shadows and dust. Jennifer. She would make it until he found her. She was a fighter. She would take care of her sister. He told himself that, over and over, repeating it like a mantra.

Ten minutes now. He looked around, scanned the world through the Martyr’s tinted, ultra-thick windows. Nobody following him yet, no police choppers. He had to keep moving. It was only a matter of time. Destination ahead. Punch it.

The Martyr leapt up over a ditch, jounced over a concrete abutment and Jacob slammed the throttle down and hit the brakes, hard. The big lumbering machine skidded to a stop. It threw him painfully against his harness and it dug into his shoulder, sending spreading branches of agony through him like lightning. He took a moment to gather himself and opened the hatch, rising into the warm mid-morning air.

There was something wrong. He got out, hopped over the side and pulled a rifle case with him. Discarding it, he checked the rifle, put a round in the chamber and dipped low behind gutted gas pumps, moving towards the building.

His hackles went up when he saw motorcycles, a box truck and that big seafoam green Chrysler out front, but no activity inside. He circled around the back, low along the windows, bent almost double. He popped his head up, looked through the grimy glass into a disused game room full of old, ripped up pool tables and busted, dusty arcade games. He worked his way around until he found a door. The wood was half rotted. Once he got the blade of his survival knife between the door and frame and pushed, the crude lock, just a padlock and hasp, pulled free with silvery slivers and fell to the ground. He ducked inside.

There was a fight in here. He could almost smell it. He dipped into a crouch and spotted a drop of blood on the floor, more on the pool table, a spatter. It was still moist, half-dry, turning to rust. He got up, darted for the door, paused. It hung open and he saw a pair of legs in silvery suit pants. Jacob ducked around the corner slowly, eyeing for someone to spot him, but the whole place was quiet as the grave but for the buzzing of flies.

Legs belonged to a body. The body was dead, and there were more. Jacob edged inside, crouching low, rifle at the ready, blood boiling in his veins. The world closed in around him, everything slow.

Everybody was dead already.

Calvin Carlyle lay spread on the floor in the casual, clumsy way of a newly made corpse. His face was spattered with dried, rusty gore but otherwise unmarked, his expression slack like he was contemplating a difficult crossword puzzle. He had a clean entry wound on one side of his head. He’d been facing the door, where Jacob just came, when he was shot. High powered rifle, massive exit wound. Trauma to brain. He was dead before he hit the ground.

His sons lay with him. Grayson took three shots, on to the chest. He must have turned as he fell. The second hit his side, punched through. The third hit his head, not so clean a shot as the one that felled his father. He was moving, reacting. Calvin was shot first. Ellison lay a few feet away, sprawled on his back. His pistol lay a few inches away from his hand, dropped, useless.

Jacob took a deep breath. Keep it together, assess. Observe, not see. The leader
 
of the Leviathans was dead, too. He was trying to run when he was shot. Four shots, all center mass. Jacob crouched and looked at the blood spatter. He was no expert but it all went in the same direction. They were shot through the window by a sniper. He took a deep, ragged breath and moved through the room, careful to avoid the pools and splatters of blood on the floor, not to track any around.

More Leviathans, all dead. There was a firefight in here, shell casings on the floor, fresh bullet holes in the walls. Jacob ducked through the room, counted the bodies. Eight, all bikers. No Jennifer, no Elliot.

He crouched, thinking. He could see Elliot setting something like this up- get the Leviathans leadership and as many of their members together as he could manage in one place and kill them all, but the rest was too clever. The dead Carlyles pointed away from him, though. They were not a loose end, even Ellison. James Katzenberg depended on them to keep the town quiet, and to keep his criminal enterprises hidden. Ellison was Elliot’s best friend.

Standing, Jacob walked through the carnage and discerned. There was a fight in the game room, spilled a little blood. From the spray, maybe a broken nose. He tightened at the thought of Jennifer’ s nose broken, squeezed the forearm of the rifle in his hands and ground his teeth, but it might have gone the other way. He had to find her, but his desperation was growing, pressing against the stillness in his mind. Then it hit him.

Someone killed them all except Elliot, Jennifer, and the other hostages and took them away from here. Left the bodies lay.

Who?

Something crunched behind him and he whirled, bringing the rifle to his shoulder.

It was… a girl.

No, wait, the one from the law office, and the fundraiser. What the hell was she doing here? She wearing a ballistic vest and tac gear. He eyed her.

“Start talking,” he said.

She stood casually, not bothering to raise her hands.

“I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

He looked at her hard. Lying? He didn’t know. He edged away from the windows, dipped a little on his knees. Could be a distraction.

“Explain yourself. No bullshit. I’m in a bad mood.”

“You look like it.” She took a deep breath. “You’re not going to believe me.”

“Try me.”

“I’ve been tracking some Al Anyaab. Fangs. I followed them away from a compound, north of here. They have been moving weapons into the country through the same illicit channels that bring in the drugs they sell through the distribution network, moving them through the biker gangs.”

“Bringing them in,” said Jacob. He and Jennifer had worked that out already, but he played dumb. “I know the rest. I’ve seen it.”

“Then you know they are planning a major operation.”

“Operation?”

She nodded. “A terrorist attack.”

“What were they doing here?”

She moved through the room. “They sent a team of six men. Two snipers. From what I can tell they killed these biker men and the Carlisles, took Elliot Katzenberg and your lady friend.”

“Yeah,” said Jacob. “No sign of them.”

She nodded. “Could you stop pointing that at me please?”

Jacob did not lower the rifle.

“I haven’t decided whether or not to shoot you. Why are you following terrorists around? You’re pursuing an investigation similar to my own, right? It’s why you were at the law office first.”

“Yes. We have been working to prevent the Fangs from carrying off their attack.”

“How much do you know?”

“They’re going to ship the weapons out all over the country,” she said. “Two days from now. More than likely, they came to secure Katzenberg’s son to use him as insurance. Make sure he cooperates.”

“Cooperates with what?”

“We’re not sure, yet.”

The rifle sagged in Jacob’s hands. He tightened his grip again, raised it.

“We don’t have time for this,” she said. “If we can track them down, we have a chance at Al Naab himself.” Her voice was sharp, bitter. “I’m your only hope to find your woman.”

“I thought he was dead,” said Jacob. “I saw him at that fundraiser. He’s supposed to be dead.”

“We don’t have time for this,” she snapped again, her voice growing heated. “We have to go, now. I think I know where they’re headed. If we can catch up to them, we can follow.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t,” she said. “But you should use me. I can lead you to him. There’s still a chance for your people.”

Jacob lowered the rifle, against his instincts. Something was off about this, but he didn’t have time for paranoia.

“What do I call you?”

“Maya will do for now.”

“Alright. Outside. We’ll take my car.”

5.

Elliot pissed his pants.

Jennifer calmly sat on a thinly padded bench seat and watched a stain spread on the front of his khakis. His pant legs were snapping like flags in a high wind, from the shaking of his legs. A very fine spray tinged his sock yellow, and Jennifer looked away, keeping her eyes on the floor. She had nothing to say, not least of which because she was gagged, a piece of duct tape flattened across her mouth. Elliot was free to talk but he had nothing to say, thankfully.

Katie pushed into Jennifer’s side, as if she could disappear behind her. The van swayed back and forth, lightly. The only sound was the running of the motor, heavy breathing, and sobs. The man driving was a Fang. Seated next to him was another one, holding a rifle between his legs so the muzzle pointed up at the roof. The windows were blacked out, but Jennifer kept snapping her eyes to the windshield, hoping she might see something useful, some indication at least of their direction. She was reasonably certain they were headed east, but it was hard to tell. Her throat was dry, her head hurt and she had to breath in through her nose and everything smelled like piss.

“I’ll get us out of this,” said Elliot, on the verge of tears.

Jennifer’s head jerked and she made a muffled noise. He probably didn’t know that she was laughing at him. He was the least of her concerns, now. Jammed in the back of this van with the others, she was certain of only one thing: they were alive because they had some utility. As her throbbing head swayed back and forth, she began to assemble the pieces.

It was all a setup. Somebody clued in the Leviathans and gave them the go ahead to attack Jennifer and Jacob, knowing a deal would be set up. It was perfect. It put the bikers and the Carlisle clan in the same room, and they never saw it coming. She thought of Ellison lying on the floor, his face etched with his last thoughts. She knew he deserved it but her anger was bitter, like an old ache she wanted to go away.

She didn’t want to hate people to death. She didn’t want to be a killer.

Jennifer hadn’t been to church in ages, not since her father’s funeral, but if she made it to another one she’d say a pray for Ellison Carlyle, whether he deserved it or not. Maybe even one for Elliot.

Elliot looked ahead, through the windshield.

“Where are we going?”

The rifleman in the front seat gave him a disdainful glance and muttered something to the driver, who laughed quietly to himself and adjusted the rear view mirror. When he met Elliot’s gaze, he looked down at the floor and whimpered. Then he looked up at Jennifer.

“Is it true what you said?”

Jennifer’s eyes widened.

God damn it, Elliot. Shut up.

He looked at Katie.

“You’re my sister?”

Katie’s head rocketed up from Jennifer’s shoulder and she looked over, her big watery eyes open wide above the duct tape pressed over her mouth. Jennifer met her gaze and they were little girls again. No words passed between them and none needed to. Katie’s eyes flicked down and away and her shoulders slumped, and after a moment her shoulders jerked and she hitched, sobbing quietly. Jennifer eyed Elliot, and then kicked him hard in the shin. He jerked away, yelping. The rifleman looked back at them with hard eyes.

“Quiet,” he said.

Elliot scowled and opened his mouth to say something but quickly folded up on himself again. Katie was still staring at Jennifer, her mouth working against the gag.

Jennifer’s ear was throbbing. She’d tucked her earring in her pocket. It no longer mattered, her wrists were bound together with duct tape. She pulled at it, but it wouldn’t budge. There were at least two layers and her wrists were pressed tightly enough together to make her arms numb.

Breathe. In, out. In, out.

Despair clawed at the back of her eyes, cold and consuming. Jacob had been left for dead. They were still alive, for some reason. She was sure it was not a good one.

With nothing to do but stew on it, she sat and turned over horrible scenarios in her mind. They would simply kill them somewhere else, to avoid raising any questions when the bodies at the truck stop were discovered. They would, she shuddered, abuse them and then kill them. They would sell them. They would hurt them. Jennifer fumed, clenching her teeth, wincing as the adhesive pulled at the skin around her mouth. She eyed Elliot, quaking with fury. This was his fault, all of it.

Then she slumped. No, it was easy to blame him. He was guilty of plenty of things, but not this. He probably had no idea what was going- Jennifer wouldn’t trust him with anything important and she doubted James did, either. This all went back to Ellison and the drugs. So much happened by chance. If Cole had just kept walking or checked his phone or stopped in the bathroom instead of glancing in another student’s bag, spotting drugs and sparking the fight in the hallway, would any of them be here right now? A horrible thought flashed through her mind. Without all that had already happened, would they have ever found the weapons cache? Or would she and Jacob be combing over company filings, oblivious to the danger until it came down on their heads?