Racing to the machine, he turned it off. Then he checked and found the vial from Vanderwald undisturbed in his desk drawer.
TRUITT SLIPPED DOWN the hall and into the living room. The sliding glass door was still cracked open. He quickly made his way through the living room. He was almost at the door when he bumped a sculpture and it fell and cracked.
Hickman heard the noise and raced down the hall.
Truitt was through the sliding glass door and on the rear patio when Hickman entered the living room and saw him outside. The intruder was dressed in black and moved with a certain purpose. Still, he was trapped on the patio and the guards were on their way up the elevator.
Hickman slowed to relish the moment.
“Just stop where you are,” he said, peering out of the glass door. “There’s no escape now.”
The man turned and looked directly at Hickman. Then he smiled, climbed on the chest-high wall surrounding the patio, nodded, then waved. Turning around, he leapt off the wall and into the darkness. Hickman was still standing there in shock when the security guards burst into the room.
BLIND FAITH IS a powerful emotion.
And that was all Truitt had at the instant he pulled the cord attached to the front of his jacket. Blind faith in the Oregon’s Magic Shop. Blind faith that Kevin Nixon’s invention would work. A split second after pulling the cord, a small drag chute popped from the rear of the jacket and ripped the Velcro holding the back of the jacket together. An instant later, a pair of wings like those on a Chinese fighting kite unfolded and locked into place. Four-foot-by-four-foot flaps attached by shock cords dropped below the wings like air brakes on a plane.
Truitt slowed and began to gain control.
“GET READY,” GUNDERSON said, “he’s coming down fast.”
Pilston stared up and caught sight of Truitt for just a second as he passed through a spotlight sweeping the sky near the volcano. Truitt made a 360-degree turn in the air then straightened out. He was ten feet above the sidewalk, twenty yards in front of the Jeep, racing away from them. Luckily the sidewalk was almost empty. This late at night most of the tourists were already in bed or bound tight to the gambling tables. Truitt continued in a straight line.
Gunderson twisted the key on the Jeep and the engine roared to life. He slammed it into gear and raced forward after Truitt. Nine feet, eight feet, but Truitt was having trouble bringing it down to earth. He raced along, his feet still hanging free in the air.
A pair of call girls stood ahead on the corner waiting for the light to change. They were dressed in latex dresses, perched on platform shoes, and their hairstyles were teased and high. One was smoking, one was receiving her next assignment over her cell phone. Truitt reached up and pulled the cords that allowed the air brake to remain inflated. With the air brakes disabled, he dropped to the ground like a rock. He just managed to windmill his feet before touching the sidewalk, and he ran along until he could regain balance and slow his forward movement. He was only five feet from the two ladies when he managed to slow to a walk.
“Evening, ladies,” Truitt said, “nice night for a stroll.”
Farther to his rear, a red SUV with the Dreamworld logo was pulling out of the driveway of the hotel. The security guard driving stomped on the gas and the tires chirped on the pavement.
At just that moment, Gunderson and Pilston pulled alongside in the Jeep.
“Get in,” Gunderson shouted.
Truitt climbed onto the running board then up into the rear of the Jeep. As soon as Truitt was in back. Gunderson hit the gas and raced up the Strip. Truitt’s bag was sitting on the seat next to him. He unzipped it and reached inside, pulling out a metal box.
“We’re being followed,” Gunderson shouted to the rear of the Jeep.
“I noticed that,” Truitt said. “When I tell you to, place the Jeep in neutral and shut off the engine.”
“Got it,” Gunderson said.
They were racing along at ninety miles an hour but the red SUV was gaining. Truitt swiveled around on the rear bench seat and pointed the box at the SUV’s grille.
“Now,” he yelled.
Gunderson placed the Jeep in neutral and twisted the key off. The lights went dark, and the power steering ceased to operate, making the Jeep hard to steer. Gunderson was wrestling to keep it on the road. Truitt flipped a toggle switch on the box. A signal was sent out into the ether that fried the electrical control box on any vehicles that were operating nearby. The lights on the red SUV went dark and it started slowing. A few cabs that were on the road nearby also ground to a stop.
“Okay,” Truitt yelled, “you can start her up again.”
Gunderson twisted the key and the Jeep roared to life. He slid it into gear again and regained control. “Where to?” he shouted to Truitt.
“Do you two have your bags?”
“We just showered at the hotel,” Pilston said. “We left our bags on the plane.”
“To the airport then,” Truitt said. “We’d better get out of Vegas.”
MAX HANLEY STOOD alongside the computer in Michael Halpert’s office on board the Oregon. The two men were staring at the screen intently.
“Then it cut off,” Halpert said.
“How much data did we retrieve?” Hanley asked.
“I’ll have to go through it all,” Halpert said, “but it looks like a lot.”
“Start analyzing it,” Hanley said quickly, “and report back to me as soon as you find anything of value.”
Just then Hanley’s communicator beeped and Stone’s voice came over the speaker.
“Sir,” Stone said, “I just received word from the Gulfstream that they are departing Las Vegas.”
“I’ll be right there,” Hanley said into the microphone.
Hanley made his way quickly along the passageway then opened the door to the control room. Stone was sitting in front of the monitors; he turned as Hanley entered, then pointed at the screen. A map of the western United States was displayed with a flashing red light marking the position of the Gulfstream. The jet was just about to cross over Lake Mead heading east. Right then Hanley’s telephone rang, and he walked over to his console and answered it.
“Hanley.”
“Did you receive the computer files?” Truitt asked.
“We got some,” Hanley said. “Halpert’s analyzing them now. It looked like the transmission was stopped midstream—did you run into problems?”
“The target returned when I was doing the download,” Truitt said over the noise from the Gulfstream’s jet engines. “He probably broke the connection.”
“That also means that he knows someone might be on to him.”
“Exactly,” Truitt said.
“What else have you got?”
Truitt reached into his jacket on the seat across the aisle and removed the photographs he had stolen from Hickman’s office. He turned on the fax machine that was attached to the air phone and started to scan them into memory.
“I’m sending you some photographs,” Truitt said.
“Who are they?” Hanley asked.
“That’s what I want you to find out.”
31
“DAMN RIGHT IT’S a problem,” the president said to Langston Overholt.
An hour earlier the British prime minister had informed the president that they had discovered a Greek ship captain with radiation burns at a location less than fifty miles from downtown London. As the president and Overholt spoke, the secure lines between the two countries were still burning with a flurry of transmissions.