Witness to Death (35 page)

They crunched through snow, walking past a row of black SUVs and away from the hangar, and the gravel road. Christine was behind Callahan, silent except for an occasional, “Keep going” when he slowed. The cold from the snow dug into his ankles, and he wished he had boots on. He flexed his hands, trying to get the blood flowing through where the handcuffs once were.

Why’d she take them off?

He could see the edge of the snow bank and for the first time he realized they were on a mountain. He was right, they must have been in Vernon, on the other side of the cliff from the ski lodge. The closer they got to the edge, the more trees, and house roofs he could see. Probably as far as New York State in the gray distance. Why were they walking out this way?

Callahan’s legs were heavy, as if he’d just run a 5K. He wanted to stop and get it over with.

They reached the end of the field; the edge of the cliff and Callahan saw it had to be a hundred feet to the ground. The path off the cliff wasn’t straight down but it was a sharp angle of roots, mud and snow.

Christine grabbed him by the shoulder, jamming her thumb into a pressure point. It felt like someone had shoved a rock into his back and held it there. He went down to his knees.

“What are you doing?” Callahan said.

“End of the line,” Christine intoned.

“And you’ve uncuffed me?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “And this way is more fun.”

There was a sound like metal sliding against metal then a loud click. Another loud click.

A gun.

“So,” Callahan said. “You don’t trust me, you’re going to shoot me? I don’t think Mr. Sandler will like that very much.”

“No, I’m not going to shoot you. That’s just back-up,” Christine said. “I’ve always liked weapons. Knives, guns, all that stuff. And these past few days have been kind of fun. I got to use a gun, a knife, the taser. Hell, even a hand grenade. That was very cool.”

The sweat on Callahan’s body dried, and he got very cold.

There was more motion behind him and he craned his neck to try and see behind him. Before he got even a quarter of the way around, the woman twisted him back again, scolding him with a
tsk tsk.
Then a soft whisper of twine, like a fishing line being cast. It repeated followed by a short click.

“I’m not—”

“No. I want to do something much more personal than that for you. You’re good. You’re an agent. A spy. A gun would be too easy.”

Callahan bit the inside of his cheek and tasted copper. His knees were burning in the snow. A gust of wind blew stray snow funnels into his eyes. That was the amazing thing about cold, at times it was warm or even hot, but he knew those feelings were tricks of the mind.

Apparently, they understood each other, because the woman made that
tsk
sound again and said, “They will hear you, Peter. Down there. If I shoot you, they will hear me and things won’t go over smoothly. They can’t find out for a while.”

Callahan looked over the cliff and could see some streetlights and darkened houses.

“Christine, I told you… This is stupid. You’re going to be caught. You’re going to be put in a military prison. And even if you aren’t, I’ll kill you. For Ashley. For Michelle.” Callahan’s voice didn’t waver. He wished he could see where the gun was.

“It’s not time for that bullshit. I—” She paused and Callahan started to turn toward her. But she put her hand on the pressure point again and he froze. “I’m going to kill you.”

The words cut through him. What he’d surmised now felt real as he heard the words spoken aloud. The air whooshed from his lungs and his throat closed. He tried to get his feet under him and run, but the woman just pushed him to the ground again. He was shaking his head back and forth. He bit down on his cheek harder, feeling the stream of blood cover his tongue. He spit it out, and heard it strike the snow.

“Don’t do this,” he said. He didn’t like begging, but he needed more time to figure a way out of this.

“Shut up,” Christine said.

Callahan said, “We don’t need more blood on the ground, Christine.”

He heard more movement, something being pulled against cloth.

There was a long silence. Callahan wondered what she was thinking.

Wind whipped through the trees below him, and Callahan wondered if their empty branches would be the last thing he saw. Or the lights from the houses in the distance.

It’d been a long time since he’d been this close to death. What was she going to do to him?

“Say hello to Ashley.”

Callahan’s mouth went dry. He shut his eyes. His chest was on fire.

He heard a sound like a zipper again and he opened his eyes. He knew what was coming. The question was: Was he fast enough?

He tried to get his arms up as something flashed across his vision.

Callahan took a breath before he felt the thin wire touch his throat.

The reason someone trains is to learn and gain experience. The Farm had taught Callahan ways to survive nearly any kind of attack. Learn what to do in training, repeat it over and over again. That way when it happens in real life, instinct and muscle memory kick in.

The key to surviving an attack from a garrote was to get something in between the wire and the airway. Get his hand up, and let that take the punishment. Then either spin around and go on the offensive, if there was room, or swing your heel back, kick the shin and scrape down.

Callahan got his left hand up in time. He knew because blood started to squirt from his palm and trickle down his wrist. Christine pulled the garrote tighter and Callahan’s knuckles drove into his throat. His eyes bulged and flecks of snow dropped into them.

He dug his knees into the ground, opened his mouth wide and tried to get a mouthful of air.

He gasped some down.

He snapped his head back into Christine’s stomach and twisted right. Before she could pull tighter, he dropped his butt on to his feet and leaned underneath the garrote. She snapped her left leg into his ribs. The air he’d inhaled exploded out of his mouth. While he felt the throbbing in his ribs, she caught his open chin with a hard right that spun him around. His brain went foggy, and he hit the snow face first.

Pressing his palms deep in the snow, he felt the sharp gravel beneath it dig into his cut. He got himself into a push-up position, refusing to give into the pain, and looked at Christine. She stood, waiting for him to lunge at her.

He started to get to his feet, but Christine stuck a knee in the small of his back pushing him back to the ground.

Callahan rolled again, and leaped to his feet ignoring the roar through his torso. He rushed Christine, wrapping her up as if he was Lawrence Taylor and she was a quarterback. They toppled into the snow.

Callahan pushed himself to his feet, quickly this time, snow dropping off his face and shoulders. He turned to see Christine jump to her feet as well. Christine pulled a gun clear of the holster at her waist, but she seemed unsure if the safety was off, flicking at it with her thumb. Callahan charged her.

The moment’s hesitation was all Callahan needed, catching her with a quick right and left to the stomach before she could turn the gun on him. She grunted. Callahan reared back and hit her in the jaw with all his remaining strength. It was Christine’s turn to spin and go down to her knees. Blood poured from her lip, spattering against the white ground. Tottering on her knees, she closed her eyes and fell to one side.

Callahan knew the feeling of trying to will the air back into his lungs before they were ready to accept it. The pain of the air sticking in his windpipe.

Callahan ran.

Toward the cliff.

He pumped his knees high so his feet wouldn’t drag in the snow.

Behind him, floodlights from the hangar snapped on, and he heard men yelling in their direction. Sandler must have sent his men to look for them. Callahan didn’t want to wait to see what they wanted.

Callahan didn’t hesitate.

He leaped off the cliff.

Over the lip of the incline, he landed on his butt and started to slide. The hill’s angle was steep, but Callahan managed to lean back and tried to hit each branch feet first. After an instant he was tumbling, bouncing at each rock, praying he wouldn’t dislocate a shoulder or break an elbow or worse. The snow around him split and shot in the air like the wake behind a boat. Branches cracked, old leaves crumbled and dirt drove up Callahan’s crack like a bad wedgie.

A nightmare sleigh ride.

He tumbled into someone’s backyard. The lights in the house were out, and Callahan hoped it was late enough on a Sunday that the homeowners were sleeping.

Before he could stand however, his ribs erupted with vibrating electricity. It wasn’t like before, when she’d kicked him. That was a roar, and he thought they’d been bruised. Now as pain fired through him when he tried to roll, he gasped and thought he may have cracked the ribs. He tried to sit up, but the pain was too much.

He fell backwards, closed his eyes. The fire subsided.

He opened them, and tried to look up through the trees to the lip of the cliff. He couldn’t see anything except the glitter of the stars.

****

Christine leaned over the cliff but couldn’t see much through the dark.

Was he dead? Did the fall kill him?

A man in a trenchcoat rushed up next to her, holding a machine gun two-handed. He leaned over the edge to take a look, and then glanced back at Christine.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Callahan took a spill.”

The trenchcoat leaned again. Christine waited.

“Think he’s dead?” he said.

Christine shrugged.

“Take a couple of men down there and look. If you find him, bring back the body. If he’s hurt, shoot him right there.”

“What if someone finds the body?”

Christine shook her head.

“Bring. The. Body. Back.” The cold air burned her lungs.