REGISTERED U.S. DOD
VEHICLE POSITION 44°31’59.5”N 67°63’02.5”W
JONESPORT, MAINE
“Yes!” he whispered.
DeBolt focused on the first two lines, trying to highlight them. The image faltered and blinked, his frustration mounting. Then success — the VIN went bold: Present position this VIN.
He waited. His heart missed a beat when another set of boots shook the staircase outside, then faded. Climbing or descending? He couldn’t tell.
The result flashed into view.
CHEVY TAHOE, WHITE, VIN 1GCGDMA8A9KR07327
REGISTERED U.S. DOD
VEHICLE POSITION 45°11’02.5”N 67°16’07.3”W
CALAIS, MAINE
And there it was — confirmation. In an increasingly common theme, DeBolt was encouraged to have gotten a result, but shaken by another disquieting truth.
Input: Plot lat-long on map.
Seconds later a perfectly scaled map of Calais, Maine, appeared — there were also two dots, one blue and one red. What could be more intuitive, he thought. Blue Force and Red Force, just like a military exercise. The Tahoe was two blocks south of the Calais Lodge. They had tracked him here, likely through the Cadillac.
But DeBolt had one advantage. They had no idea he was nearly in their grasp.
He listened for five minutes, watched the street from the window. DeBolt felt like an animal in a sprung trap, waiting for the hunter to arrive and collect him. He saw the occasional passing car, a few pedestrians who looked harmless. A state wildlife officer drove by in an SUV, and it made him think of calling the police. But the men chasing him were driving a government vehicle, which meant they were official at some level. Going to the police would be akin to surrender.
The conservative option would be to sit tight and watch. They had followed him to Calais, but obviously didn’t realize he was literally under their noses. How long would that last? DeBolt had never been patient by nature — not when there was a more dynamic option.
He decided to leave.
All too late, he wondered if there was a back door in the hotel. Fire escapes? Emergency exits? He should have researched it all last night. Yet there might be a way to find out — DeBolt was aware of it because as a Coast Guard rescue swimmer he was also an EMT, and had trained and worked with firemen. He went to the phone by the bed and saw the hotel’s street address typed neatly on the cover plate. He entered this into his request field, along with: fire department building plan.
After some delay, a computerized diagram came to the frame in his vision. It was a layout of the hotel, and he moved and magnified the image until he had what he wanted — clear markings for all the building’s exits. Fire departments had something like it on file for every public building: a floor plan with emergency exits and stairwells and fire axes marked. DeBolt was disappointed to see only two options — the front door, and a lone exit to the rear, the latter down a short hallway from the base of the main staircase. Either way, he would be exposed for a short time.
He searched the room for a weapon. A clothes iron he thought too cumbersome, and even more so a heavy table lamp. There was nothing — until he remembered the loose balustrade post outside his door. Crude certainly, but his best option.
He shouldered the backpack momentarily, but then reconsidered and opened it. He stuffed wads of folded hundreds into each of his four pockets, then reloaded the backpack by a single strap onto his left shoulder. He listened intently, checked the viewing port. He stepped outside with his senses on high alert. He heard a television below, the vaguely familiar baritone of an over-the-hill actor giving a pitch for reverse mortgages. DeBolt saw the loose post, wrenched it free, and was heartened by its weight. A door rattled open on the floor above. DeBolt was about to rush down the staircase when he heard voices below.
The first had to be the manager. “There have been five of you — that is too many! You must pay for breakfast!”
A smart-ass reply, “Yeah, right. Here’s twenty, and we’ll call it even.”
Footfalls on the staircase above.
DeBolt saw an alcove on his right. Inside was a square shadow on the linoleum where a Coke machine had probably once been. He ducked inside, but realized too late that it wouldn’t work — he could still be seen from the landing. He rushed back out to the stairwell and was instantly eye to eye with a man he’d never seen before. But based on his reaction, a man who clearly recognized him.
The man reached behind his back, at the belt line.
DeBolt already had his wooden post swinging. His first strike landed a glancing blow, one that stunned the man and sent him stumbling against the rail. The second was a backhand swing, less powerful, but one that connected cleanly with the man’s temple. He crumpled in a heap. DeBolt rolled him and found the gun under the tail of his shirt. He didn’t know the make or model, but saw a safety and made sure it was off. He shifted the club to his left hand, then quick-stepped down the stairs, betting with his life that the gun was loaded and had a round in the chamber.
He’d gone three steps when a second man he’d never seen appeared. He looked legitimately stunned, and went statuelike when he realized DeBolt was pointing a gun at his head.
“Hang on,” he said in a calm voice. He was older than the others DeBolt had seen, concerned but collected. A soldier who’d been in tense situations before. DeBolt was no expert, but he had enough training to know where the threat was — the man’s hands remained still at his sides.
“You killed her,” DeBolt said. “You killed the nurse. Why?”
“Listen, buddy, you’re confused if you think—”
“Why?” he shouted. “Because of me? What they did to me?”
The man remained silent.
But he knew … he had to know. With the gun steady in his right hand, DeBolt swung the club with his left like he was chasing an outside fastball. The man leaned away, but the club connected with his right shoulder. He staggered to one side.
“What the hell!”
Something dark and unfamiliar took hold of DeBolt. He brandished the post high and said, “Why … why did you kill her?”
“It was by the book — a kill order. You’re a confirmed threat!”
A threat? DeBolt’s thoughts went into free fall. He felt as though he were jumping from a helo into a cloud, unalterably committed but with no idea what was below. “A threat to what?” he managed.
This time the man didn’t answer.
“Who do you work for?” he demanded.
Again no response.
DeBolt sensed a shuffle of motion from around the corner, near the front desk. The manager? He stepped to his right, trying to see who it was. The instant his eyes shifted, it happened — a foot lashed out, sweeping his legs from under him. DeBolt went down hard and the gun clattered away. The man was closer, and made a dive for it. DeBolt realized he still had the post, and from his knees he brought it down like an ax, catching the man’s arm just before it reached the gun. He screamed in pain, and the gun skittered away across the polished wood floor.
DeBolt scrambled to his feet.
The man shouted, “Thunder! Thunder!”
Words that made no sense. Not until DeBolt noticed the wire looping into his adversary’s ear. Soon he would be facing five men. Still brandishing the post, DeBolt saw his backpack and the gun on the floor. He wanted both, and they were only five steps away. But he would have to get past the man to reach them. With a glance over his shoulder, DeBolt ran toward the back door and disappeared.