Ryan’s behavior became more troublesome for the MP. He continued acting irrationally, screeching, waving his arms, and pacing in front of the gate despite having a Rugar covering him the entire time. “Listen to me…it’s not a training exercise! It’s an attack…we’ve got to get in there right now!”
“Sir, stop! Put your hands on the vehicle,” the first MP shouted, keeping his weapon trained on Ryan while his partner cautiously approached, dangling a set of handcuffs.
As soon as the MP put a hand on Ryan’s wrist, he spun around, grabbing the Glock from under his shirt, and put it forcefully to the young man’s head.
“I am not joking around here, boys,” he said, measurably calmer, having gained some leverage over the situation. “Now open the gate. I’ve come too far to get stopped now. Follow me if you want, but I’m going through.” Ryan marched closer toward the first MP, holding the Glock to his partner’s temple. “Open the gate!”
David Morris lay underneath the Kenworth, waiting expectantly for the injured man to step down. He rolled over on his back to facilitate scanning the area; by tipping his head back, he could see more easily in all directions. He figured the man inside the dump bed couldn’t get past, but his partner could easily shoot him where he lay. His only alternative was to lie flat, keeping a low profile. His heart was pounding; the tension was palpable. He had no backup and couldn’t call for reinforcements. How the hell did I get in this predicament?
“You’re out of time, mister,” Morris shouted. “Give yourself up… I’ve got all night. No need to die out here,” he said, doing his best to encourage surrender.
There was no response. The night was calm; there wasn’t a breath of wind. The only sound rustling came from thousands of cicadas, their melodious buzzing resonating through the open fields. The truck above Morris shuttered slightly under the shooter’s footsteps. It sounded like he might be slithering over the side, bracing to jump down and commence another assault. Morris steeled himself for this possibility, keeping his attention on the back of the truck. Then it sounded more like the man was climbing on top of the cab; he moved his head back and forth, hoping to detect the man’s position.
Automatic gunfire rang out, disturbing the otherwise tranquil evening. When it stopped, the cicadas were also deathly silent. Dust from bullets hitting the dry ground permeated the air. The man was indeed standing atop the cab of the truck and had fired along both sides, hoping to disorient Morris, believing this tactic would hasten his escape. While the gunfire was clearly unnerving, Morris kept his composure, undeterred by the man’s desperate attempt to flush him from beneath the truck. Then he heard one of the most shocking and unexpected statements imaginable.
“Stop! Enough already!” a man’s voice vigorously yelled. Morris presumed he was the same man who had earlier fled from the truck. He had professed to be unarmed, which now indeed seemed to be the case.
“Emil, get back. This is none of your affair. If you want to see your family again…do as you’re told,” Starkovich ordered. Morris could once again hear the strain in the man’s voice.
“No! I’m done with this,” Emil replied. “When Alastair promised to cancel the debt I owe him, I never thought my help included accessory to murder. I’m drawing the line…you can’t keep killing people.”
Morris recognized that the diversion was his opportunity to act. He figured the shooter was focused briefly on his partner. If he acted swiftly, he might regain the upper hand. He rolled over to the opposite side of the truck from where Emil was standing.
He jumped up behind the shooter, leveling his weapon. “It’s over, mister,” he shouted. “You’re covered…drop the gun and put your hands behind your head. Don’t make this any worse.”
Unfortunately, Tom Starkovich chose not to go down without a fight. He moved surprisingly fast even though a bullet had torn through his left knee in the previous gun battle. Stark spun on his good leg, strafing automatic fire in a wide arc across his body. It was his last desperate act, unable to get turned far enough to bring the deadly fire upon his foe.
Morris was unflinching, prepared for the shooter to defend his position. He knew a shot to the chest was useless; the protective Kevlar vest was impenetrable. His only choice was a head shot. He squeezed off one shot, hitting Starkovich in the temple as he continued to turn, the impact force causing him to flip over backward onto the ground. He landed awkwardly, his neck snapping from his full weight falling forcefully on his head.
Morris now pointed his weapon at Emil, who stood with his hands high above his head. “Don’t move and keep your hands up,” he ordered, moving cautiously toward the slain man on the ground.
“Yes, sir,” Emil replied, holding his hands steady. “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life.”
Morris moved warily toward the slain gunman, holding his weapon with both hands as he approached. He kicked aside the automatic weapon and reached down to unzip the Velcro patch on the vest holding his pistol. He glanced at the man’s face and could tell he was dead from the severe head wound. To be sure, he felt for the carotid pulse to confirm his impression. Nothing. The man was gone.
“Put both hands on your head,” Morris said, now focusing back on Emil. He advanced toward the man and handcuffed his left wrist, attaching the free cuff to the door handle of the truck. Only then did he re-holster his weapon to consider his next move.
“This is a sorry mess we have here, mister. I don’t know what your involvement’s been, but there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“I’m not part of this, Officer,” Emil tried to explain.
“Shut up. You have the right to remain silent,” he said irascibly, reciting the rest of his Miranda rights before adding, “I don’t want to hear another word.”
Morris dialed 911. “Dispatch, this is Lieutenant David Morris from the Palo Alto Police in California.” He listened patiently while the dispatch officer confirmed his statement. “That’s correct…I need immediate assistance. I’m on Route 13 just outside Fort Knox. I have a prisoner in custody, and another dead at the scene. We’ll need the coroner.”
When the call was over and help was on the way, Morris felt himself begin to relax for the first time since he’d arrived at the Louisville airport. His sense of relief was somewhat blunted by having missed arresting the men responsible for the theft at Stanford. He took comfort, however, that he had at least helped thwart the master plan-a plan that set him on this course four days before.
My God, has it only been that long? he thought. It seems like Quantum was an eternity ago. He hung his head, trying to make sense of it all. What some people will do for money…
SIXTY-EIGHT
Fort Knox
Agent Jason Henry and Emerson Palmer were holding steady a few hundred yards from where the Peterbilt tractor-trailer was positioned. They had front row seats when Conrad set his antigravity machine in motion, completely spellbound by the awesome manifestation of the new technology in action.
As they watched, Henry trained the night-scope on the trailer and for a moment he thought he’d lost his mind. He rubbed his eyes and took a second look at the man shadowing Conrad inside the Plexiglas control module. His first impulse of skepticism quickly turned to incredulity. No way. It couldn’t be, he thought. What the hell would he be doing here?
“Emerson, take a look at the guy standing next to Conrad. Who does he look like?” Henry asked, handing him the spotter’s scope. He couldn’t be certain given the distance, but the man in question resembled a fellow cleaner.
“Sweet Jesus! That’s Major Nuzam!” Palmer exclaimed. “What in tarnation is Rafie doing here?”
“Beats me,” Henry replied. “I thought he looked like Rafie. I’ll be damned…Freeman’s got a cleaner on the inside we didn’t know about.”