“As soon as that check cleared Griffin bought two pickups,” Troy continued. “Both of them were F-150s, one red, one black.” He pointed at the truck coming toward them, then at the one down the hill. “He bought one for himself and gave the other to Charlie, probably as a carrot to stay quiet about what they were doing. Probably right after he’d told the kid he’d kill him if he said anything to anyone.”
The truck was still a football field away, but it was coming fast, kicking up loose stones against the undercarriage. Jack took a deep breath. He was nervous as hell.
“Griffin paid for the trucks with a certified check made out to a Ford dealership in Stamford.”
“You found out all that while I was gone?”
“It wasn’t hard.” Troy gestured at the farmhouse with his pistol. “All the records were in a desk drawer on the second floor. Griffin had less than five hundred bucks in his account before he made that deposit. He hadn’t made a deposit into the account for seven months before that. That one was for just eight hundred bucks. Griffin was basically broke two weeks ago. Then, boom, he hit the lottery.”
“Maybe he did.”
“Come on, Jack.”
“Maybe he has other accounts.”
“There were no records of another one I could find.”
“He must have some money. He owns this farm.”
“I found cancelled checks with notations on them indicating that he rents this place. Besides, it’s not like it’s that great, right? Even if he owns it, he might be upside down on the mortgage or way behind on the payments. Come on, Jack, you’re the finance guy. Griffin was out of work and digging down to his last dime two weeks ago. He was desperate. He probably jumped at the chance to kidnap L.J. and get a big payday.”
“Have you figured out who wrote the big check he deposited?”
“No, but I’ve got my guy at NSA working on it. The money transfers will probably end up running through a numbered account somewhere, and that’ll be that. But he’s still trying to run it down. One more thing,” Troy said. “Griffin closed that account last Friday and swept all the money out of it after paying for the pickups. That was more than a hundred and ninety grand.”
“You think Griffin’s about to run?”
“I think Wayne Griffin, the other guy who Charlie told us is with him in that truck right now, and Charlie grabbed Little Jack from Mom this morning off that side street in Greenwich. I think Griffin and his buddy just finished dropping L.J. off to someone. And yeah, I definitely think they’re about to run. I think we got here just in time, right before they probably disappear forever.” Troy nodded at the truck, which had almost reached the house. “Or they’re killed by whoever put them up to grabbing Little Jack so there aren’t any trails for people like us to follow. I don’t think these guys are sophisticated enough to hatch and execute a kidnap-and-ransom mission. I’m betting these guys are just patsies for whoever’s really pulling the strings.”
The black pickup skidded to a stop on the gravel beside the red one, and two men wearing dark, hooded sweatshirts and jeans hopped out of the truck, ran for the farmhouse, and disappeared through the front doorway.
“They know something’s up,” Troy whispered as he tapped his pants pocket. “They’ve been calling Charlie’s phone over and over. It’s been vibrating like mad. And the ID that keeps coming up on the screen is ‘Dad.’ ” He glanced over at Jack. “You ready?”
“Yeah, what’s the plan?”
“We go down there and hide behind the trucks. When they come back out of the house, we take them.”
“That’s it?”
“Simple’s always best when it comes to this stuff,” Troy muttered as he stood up. “Come on.”
With the Glock clasped tightly in his right hand, Jack climbed the fence, dropped to the other side, and raced after Troy. Moments later they were crouched at the back of the black pickup, Troy on the driver side, Jack on the passenger side.
“Follow my lead,” Troy whispered, “and remember, Jack, shoot to kill.”
Shoot to kill. The words rattled around in his head, over and over.
“Here they come. Get ready, Jack. Watch me. Go when I go. Don’t hesitate.”
Jack’s hands shook, sweat poured from his body, and his heart felt like it would explode. Troy was trained in this stuff. He knew how he’d react at that critical moment. Jack had no idea how he would.
God, he thought to himself, what the hell was he doing here?
“Go!” Troy hissed.
Jack burst from behind the truck, both hands wrapped tightly around the composite handle of the gun, barrel raised so he could stare down the top of the sleek weapon.
As Troy shouted from the other side of the pickup for someone to get their hands up high, Jack came face-to-face with a man who’d been about to hurl open the passenger door. He was about forty years old, Jack judged, with dark, curly hair, dark eyes, and desperation spray-painted all over the face.
For several moments they stared at each other without moving, and as the moments passed, all objects in Jack’s peripheral vision slowed down until nothing seemed to be moving. At the same time all sounds faded away and his sense of touch evaporated, so that he could no longer feel the gun pressed to the fingers and palm of his hand. The only thing he was aware of was his heart beating loudly and rhythmically, though, oddly, not that fast anymore.
The silence surrounding Jack was shattered by a single gunshot. But it seemed to come from far away, as if it were echoing to him gradually from the other end of a cave. At the same moment he was aware of a movement in front of him, though he wasn’t immediately certain of what was moving.
Then Jack realized what was happening. The man standing in front of him reached behind his back.
In an instant all sounds hurtled back to Jack’s ears; once more he could feel the smoothness of the Glock handle; and the scene before him raced from stone-still to fast-forward.
Jack lunged forward as the man brought a revolver up, grabbing the guy’s right wrist and then the gun as he swung his own pistol at the man’s head.
Again everything slowed down, so that Jack saw the man’s index finger and the purple bruise on the guy’s nail squeezing the trigger, so he actually saw a puff of white smoke explode from the barrel even as he slammed the barrel of his own gun into the man’s face just below the left eye. He expected instant and terrible pain, but felt nothing as the man tumbled backward to the ground in front of him.
Another one of those faint gunshots echoed from the far end of a cave as Jack leaped at the man, who was already struggling back to his feet. As the man glanced over his shoulder, Jack spotted a deep gash below one of the man’s eyes, gushing blood. Then the guy was aiming his gun again as Jack tried to slam his gun to the side of the man’s head to put him down for good.
He missed and clipped him on the shoulder and neck, and this time there was a sudden, scorching pain in Jack’s left side as another gunshot blasted the afternoon. Despite the bee-sting-on-steroids feeling tearing at his side, he grabbed the man by the front of the sweatshirt and nailed him with a right cross, aided again by the Glock.
The man tumbled backward. This time he didn’t get up.
“Hey!”
Jack whipped around toward the voice and the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, bringing his gun up as he turned. Everything was in fast-forward once more.
Troy grabbed Jack’s wrist and stopped the Glock before Jack could shoot. “Hey, it’s me! Stop!”
Troy’s image came into focus, and the pain in Jack’s side kicked in hard. “Jesus,” he gasped.