Reckoning (21 page)

To be struck down.

A dim physical impulse told Gage he was hurt again, lying on his back on pine needles beneath a cobalt blue space of sky; stars through a patch of broken trees and the face of a man, dark in the
dusk, smiling now, with a friendly hand on Gage's chest, gently holding him down, and Gage heard the words.

"You're the one, son," the voice said, hand gentle on his chest. "You're the one
..."

Light.

An old man's shout ... A woman's voice; stern, impatient, commanding ... Hands lifting him, moving him ... carrying him ... lights passing over...

Gage weakly opened his eyes; fog, mist.

A woman ... Sarah ... yes ... doing something ... white ... speaking to him ... encouraging hands wrapping him in something warm.

Gage focused on the woman before she shoved the needle into his arm, warmth and oblivion.

He closed his eyes.

I
won't fail you ... God help me ... Not any of you.

* * *

TWENTY-TWO
 

"Well
, it don't get no worse than this."

Radford dropped three file folders on Kertzman's desk, then collapsed heavily in the green metal chair. Kertzman thought that the NSA damage control man looked remarkably disheveled for this hour in the morning.

"I've read 'em," Kertzman mumbled, leaning back in his chair, blacksmith arms stretched out so his massive hands could cup a steaming mug of coffee.

Radford almost allowed a glimmer of surprise to shine through. "Read them? How? I just got them five minutes ago. First shift faxed them in."

Kertzman grunted. "I got sources. A couple of old-timers. Everything has happened in New York, so I told some buddies of mine to keep a lookout. Told 'em to call me if there were any big-time ex-military guys killed. There were a couple. An ex-SEAL was killed in a domestic. His wife shotgunned him while he was asleep—"

"That'll do it," Radford interjected, a short shake of his head.

"Then an old Army Ranger was shot in a liquor store holdup. Lower East Side. Police got the offender. Just a thug. But when I saw the incident at St. Thomas, and the rest of it, I knew we had probably found our man."

"But how did you get the reports? The FBI guys in New York put a hold on them. Ordered no copies except for NSA. The bureau confiscated the evidence, everything. I didn't think anybody knew about this."

Kertzman laughed. "You gotta be kiddin' me. You think that anybody below the rank of captain in NYPD gives a hoot what the FBI thinks? Everybody knows about this. There's probably a hundred copies floating around. Inside and outside the department. First-year rookies in the transit police probably got copies. The FBI putting a hold on it only made it more popular. A guy I know faxed them to me at my home last night."

"Over a private line?" Radford asked, too accustomed to intrigue to be genuinely surprised, but appearing somewhat interested at the interworkings of Kertzman's life. "That's illegal, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Kertzman mumbled, and then hesitated to release a long, rumbling belch. "He called me last night, told me about a real weird gunfight on the interstate between a Cavalier and an LTD. Everybody's talking about it. Even the State Patrol's mad. And they don't get mad at anything. Takes too much energy. Turns out the driver of the Cavalier is a no-name. His ID, Sergei whatever, doesn't check. NCIC doesn't know him. Nothing. So FBI does a print check, matched him against a KGB operative named Arkady Torkarev. No record of passing customs. Not supposed to be here. I got all that this morning. That's what really got my attention. Anyway, Torkarev was killed deader 'a wedge after kissing a concrete embankment in the Cavalier, so we can't ask him any questions. Then a former member of the British SAS was..." Kertzman hesitated, "and this is the real clincher, this SAS guy was shot by a fireman in St. Thomas Cathedral. And that's only ten miles away from the accident." Kertzman stared at Radford. "That's a Catholic church."

"Yes," Radford replied quickly. "Yes, thank you. I know."

"Yeah," Kertzman continued, "so this SAS guy is cut down in a church by a fireman, who can't really be a fireman, so it's gotta be our man. And then there was a real mean knife fight, or gunfight, or both, on Paxton, three blocks from the church only minutes after the SAS guy went down. A big Japanese and a white guy. It's all related. I'll bet everything I've got on it. So we got a dead SAS guy and a dead KGB guy. Both of them killed in strange situations with no offender in custody for anything. So I ordered a print check on it and it all comes back to Gage. Nine millimeter casings. A knife. An ax at the church. It was him, alright. He was in a major headbashin' contest with somebody." He shook his head for a moment, felt strangely agreeable. "You're right, though. It don't get no worse than this."

Radford sighed. "Have you heard from Carthwright?"

"Yes." Kertzman didn't appear to want to communicate the message.

Radford ignored it. "So what did he say?"

"He was Carthwright," Kertzman replied, shrugging.

Kertzman was finished, but Radford kept staring at him.

"He isn't happy," he added finally. "He didn't sound good. He wants us to find a location for Gage, run him to ground. He doesn't seem to care if it ends in a tactical situation or not. He just wants it to end."

Radford nodded. "Good. So what are we going to do?"

"Did the police get anything on the LTD that left the scene of the accident?"

"No," Radford replied. "No sightings. The black guy, or
Japanese or Indian or whatever he is, is gone, too. Vanished without a trace, as they say in police work."

"With no direction of travel," Kertzman added.

"Whatever. He hasn't showed up at any hospitals. We have nothing. Just the Cavalier. It was registered to a warehouse that operates out of Manhattan. A legitimate operation. No connections that I can find. Owners say the car was stolen sometime last night. They didn't notice it was missing until today." Radford shrugged. "It could have happened. They've got a lot of cars. There was forced entry into the garage. Looks real. Discovered this morning. There's nothing to indicate otherwise."

"Who owns the garage?"

"Unlimited Storage."

"And who owns that?"

"AmTech Incorporated."

"And who owns AmTech?"

"A holding company."

"And who controls the holding company?"

Radford sighed. "I don't know. Probably a bigger company."

"Trace it back."

"OK," Radford nodded. "I'll find something."

Kertzman thought for a minute.

"Where's Milburn?" he asked, indifferent.

"You're asking me?" Radford seemed taken back. "I don't know. I'm working my end. That's all I know about." He looked closely at Kertzman. "I would like to bring this all to an ending, Kertzman, if you know what I mean. This is really starting to stink, and some of that is going to rub off. I didn't ask for this assignment. I was volunteered for it. I know that a lot of those guys in the Pentagon had suspicions, but you're the one who really nailed down
something serious going on, figured this wildman was one of ours. You're the great white hunter. Killing bears in the mountains, no helicopters and all that jive. So maybe you should figure out a way to track this guy down."

Radford's tone was pushing.

Kertzman didn't seem to notice, continued to stare at the mug. His voice was distant, thoughtful. "Have you studied Gage's 201?"

"Yeah," replied Radford. "I know everything there is to know."

"The Black Light file?"

"That, too."

"Is anyone still alive that was in the unit?"

Radford considered that. "I checked on that, like I told you I would. There's nobody still active in the field that he worked with. I put out the word on a little reward for anyone who hears from him."

"I didn't say 'active,'" Kertzman replied moodily.

Radford gazed at him. A long silence passed.

"Kertzman, surely you don't expect me to just randomly contact people Gage knew in the unit." Radford's voice was indulgent. "That's a lot of footwork, isn't it? I mean, some of these guys are drunks. They don't have phones. They've fallen to the wayside. When these guys go back to civilian life they sometimes lose it."

Kertzman was impassive. "Yeah," he said, "contact them. Find them all. There can't be more than a half-dozen. Find out where they're working. Find out who owns the companies they work for. Run the companies against this Cavalier. Cross-check everything. Look hard for somebody working for a transport company that rents aircraft. Anybody who owns a gun store or has a Class Three Firearms License, or even a Class Two. The Bureau will have it. Find out if any of them have purchased
night visors, APGs, fully automatic weapons, anything that Gage might have used in Black Light. Find out if any of them have access to NCIC. Run a tag search through the Information Center and see if anyone ran the tag on the Cavalier at any time within the past forty-eight hours. Find out where the ammo used at the church was purchased, see if it can be traced back to a town within one hundred miles of where any of his old buddies live. Find a connection. Get everything on everybody, everyone who's still alive, that is. There's going to be something, somewhere. I'll take care of the SAS and KGB guys."

Radford seemed to be figuring a better way to do things. "What makes you think Gage is still in contact with anybody in his old Army unit?"

Kertzman scowled, shook his head. His gaze wandered the room for a minute, face concentrated. "Gage ain't perfect," he said slowly. "He needs help. He's like everybody else. Somewhere, he's made a mistake. You can count on it. Just find it. Then we'll find him."

"That's a lot of work, Kertzman."

"Use some of the NSA staff," Kertzman said. "They don't have anything better to do. And they don't have to know anything about what they're doing, anyway. Tell 'em to crunch numbers. They're good at it. It's probably all they're good at."

Radford opened his mouth to show offense.

"Save it," Kertzman growled, a tone of granite. "Just tell them to find some number that can link one of Gage's old teammates, somebody who went out before the big showdown in the desert, with some company associated with the Cavalier or the bullets or the Hi-Power or anything else."

Radford was quiet, reluctant.

"Alright," he said, after a moment. "I'll get some people on it. What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to New York. The British are sending over somebody to claim the body of their guy. They seem a little peeved. He'll be in today. Leaving tonight. I want to talk to him."

Radford looked at him a moment, thinking. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea. Maybe you can find something. You want me to tell Carthwright?"

Kertzman rose to his feet. "I'll tell him. He's still in
Washington. I've got to meet him this morning, give him a status report."

Radford also rose. "You want me to tell Milburn anything if I see him?"

Kertzman shook his head, reached for his keys. "No."

Radford nodded, started for the door.

"Hey, Radford."

"Yeah?" He stared back at Kertzman, ready to please.

Kertzman's impassive face was stone. Dead flat eyes focused on Radford. The voice was abrupt.

"How come you got volunteered for this operation?"

Empty hands were raised in the air.

"No reason, Kertzman. It sure ain't because I like looking at your pretty face, I'll tell you that."

* * *

Sarah c
ut off Gage’s black cotton shirt that had become stiff with blood, made certain he was sleeping soundly and left him in his small bedroom. She took a shower, put on a clean pair of Gage’s jeans and one of his black T-shirts. Then she found an old Army belt that was infinite adjustable and fixed the jeans tight so that they fit her slim waist.

The cabin, not large, was silent. The three additional bedrooms were tiny and used mainly for storage, particularly the one in the back of the house that was crammed with crates, a desk with a small computer that was hooked into a telephone modem, and a small Army cot. She knew that most of Gage's more dangerous high-tech combat equipment was stored in the garage under lock and key. The battered LTD and Jeep were also in the adjoining building, which was almost as large as the house itself.

She entered the front room, the only room of any real size in the entire cabin, to find Barto and Malachi sitting quietly at the kitchen table. She smiled faintly at them as she entered and poured herself a cup of coffee. Her pale face revealed dark circles under the jade green eyes. Her hands trembled.

Malachi stood as she entered, walked to her for a solid, comforting embrace. She held him for a moment, then separated to walk towards the table, sitting down. Malachi followed and sat down beside her, wordless.

Barto said nothing, stared out the window. She reached out and took his hand.

"You did what was right," she said tiredly.

Barto made a sudden movement of his head. "I didn't know what else to do. He wouldn't go to a hospital."

"Well, I think he might still live," Sarah said, removing her hand, leaning back. "You did all you could. We all did."

"What about his injuries?" Barto's voice was edged.

"I used up all the silk," she replied wearily, sweeping a
trembling hand through her hair. "He had a lot of cuts. But the only really serious one was on his forearm. It missed his radial artery by a half-inch. Probably missed his major nerves too because they run along the inside of the arm, not the outside, where the cut was. But I can't tell for sure. There was a lot of venous bleeding. That's his main trouble right now. He needs a transfusion. Closing the wounds took a lot of stitches. I cleaned out the incisions as best I could with the time I had but ..." She paused, sighing. "I think he might have a couple of broken ribs. I can't tell. There's some swelling, some tenderness. But they might just be bruised. Even a doctor couldn't tell without an x-ray."

Barto seemed shaken again. "You really think he might make it?" His eyes were widened behind the glasses.