“Who’s he calling?”
“Add this to the equation,” Church said. “Interest in Burke and his unstoppable novel plot has increased substantially in the weeks following those purchases.”
“Well, that’s interesting as hell.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
“You think he’s trying to sell it?”
“We have to be open to that possibility.”
What Church didn’t say aloud was: In which case Burke becomes a national security liability.
“We need to put this idiot in a bag,” I said. “But we can’t put out an APB. That would draw every shooter east of the Mississippi.”
“Likely it would draw shooters from around the globe,” said Church. “A dozen countries come to mind.”
“What if he’s already dead?”
He looked at me. Church wears tinted glasses that make it tough to read his expression. “Is that what you think?”
I thought about it, and shook my head. “No. Considering how important Burke is, a pro would either be under orders to get him out of the country or get him to one of their safe houses. Or they’d want him splashed all over the headlines. Either way, the odds on him seizing the opportunity to leave a message is pretty slim.”
“Agreed.” Church took another cookie. Another vanilla wafer. Weird.
I nodded to the recorder on the table. “Play it again.”
This is Simon Burke . . . look, you jokers said you’d protect me. They’re
going to tear me apart. Look . . . I don’t have much time . . . this is really
hard. You got to do something. God—please! They’re killing me here. You
got to get me out of this. Jesus Christ, you said this wouldn’t happen.
He played it three times more. It sounded just as bad each time; and Burke sounded just as terrified. I rubbed my eyes and stood up.
“He sounds genuinely scared,” I said. “And outraged. I can’t see him making that call after he’s contacted potential buyers. It would make more sense for him to do that as a result of getting no action on this kind of a cry for help.”
“Agreed. Which means we are short on answers, and time is not our friend.”
“Then I guess I’d better get my boys and get gone.”
“Sergeant Dietrich is prepping a helo,” said Church. He cocked his head at me. “Have you ever been to that town?”
“Pine Deep? Sure, but way back when I was a kid. My dad took me and my brother to the big Halloween Festival they used to have. That was before the trouble, of course.”
The trouble.
Funny little word for something that stands as one of the worst disasters in U.S. history. More than eleven thousand dead in what has been officially referred to as an act of terrorism and insurrection by a domestic terrorist cell that had been formed by members of a local white supremacist organization. The terrorists dumped a lot of LSD into the town’s drinking water. Had everyone convinced that half the town was turning into monsters.
“Terrible tragedy,” said Church.
“I saw the movie they did on it,” I said. “Hellnight, I think it was called. Hollywood turned it into a horror picture. Vampires and ghosts and werewolves, oh my.”
Church chewed his cookie. “There was a lot of confusion surrounding the incidents. The official report labeled it as domestic terrorism.”
I caught the slight emphasis he put on the word official. “Why, was there something else going on?”
He very nearly smiled.
“Have a safe trip, Captain Ledger.”
-3-
Route A-32
Bucks County, Pennsylvania
August 16; 4:22 P.M.
The chopper put us down at a private airfield near Doylestown, Pennsylvania, and a couple of DMS techs had a car waiting for us. It looked like a two-year-old black Ford Explorer, but we had the full James Bond kit. Well, I guess it was more the Jack Bauer kit. No oil slicks or changeable license plates. Mostly we had guns. Lots and lots of guns. The back bay was a gun closet with everything from Glock nines to Colt M4 carbines fitted with Aimpoint red-dot sights, and enough ammunition to wage a moderately enthusiastic war.
Bunny whistled as he opened all the drawers and compartments. “And to think I asked for a puppy for Christmas.
“For when you care enough to send the very best,” he said, hefting a Daewoo USAS-12 automatic shotgun. “I think I’ll call her ‘Missy.’”
“Freak,” muttered Top Sims under his breath. First Sergeant Bradley Sims—Top to everyone—was a career noncom who had been in uniform nearly as long as Bunny had been alive, but for all that he’d never cultivated the testosterone-driven shtick of idolizing weapons.
To him they were tools and nothing more. He respected them, and he handled them with superior professional skill, but he wasn’t in love with them.
Bunny—Harvey Rabbit, according to his birth certificate—looked dreamy-eyed like a man going courting.
They were the only two members of Echo Team left standing after our last couple of missions. We had more guys in training, but Top and Bunny were on deck and ready to roll when this Burke thing came at us. Like me, they were dressed in civilian clothes. Jeans, Hawaiian shirts. Top wore New Balance cross-trainers that looked like they’d been spit-polished; Bunny had a well-worn pair of Timberlands.
I said, “Concealed small arms. We’re here on a search and rescue. We’re not declaring war on rural Pennsylvania.”
Bunny looked hurt. “Damn, and here I thought it was redneck season.”
Even Top grinned at that.
I looked at my watch. “Saddle up. We’re burning daylight.”
Even as I said it, I heard a rumble of thunder and glanced up. The sky above was bright and blue and cloudless, but there were storm clouds gathering in the northeast. Probably ten miles from where we were, which put the clouds over or near Pine Deep. Swell. Nothing helps a manhunt better than fricking rain.
We climbed into the SUV, buckled up for safety, and headed out, taking Route 202 north and then cutting onto the snaking black ribbon that was State Alternate Route A-32. Top drove; Bunny crammed his six-and-a-half-foot bulk into the back and I took the shotgun seat.
“So why’s this Burke guy so important?” asked Bunny. “And since when do we screw around with Witness Protection?”
“Not exactly what this is,” I said. “Simon Burke is a writer and—”
“I read his books,” said Top. “Bit weird. Little paranoid.”
I nodded. “He writes thrillers and, since the middle nineties, he has built a rep for creating ultra-believable terrorist plots.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Bunny, nodding. “I saw the movie they made out of one of those books. The one about terrorists introducing irradiated fleas into the sheepdogs in cattle country. Jon Stewart had him on and kind of fried the guy because a couple of meatheads actually tried to do the flea thing. Burke kept saying, ‘How is that my problem?’”
“That’s the story in a nutshell,” I said. “Burke’s plots have always been way too practical and he likes showing off by providing useful detail. There’s a fine line between a detailed thriller novel and a primer for terrorists.”
“Hooah,” murmured Top. That was Army Ranger–speak for everything from ‘I agree’ to ‘Get stuffed.’”
“Well, early last year Burke was doing the talk-show circuit to promote his new book—”
“— A Predator Species,” supplied Top. “Read it. Gave it four stars out of five.”