Ryan’s greatest unspoken fear had just been realized. His one remaining son had vanished. This can’t be happening, he thought. His stomach lurched and he felt sick. It was as though he was trapped in some surreal dream, one from which he couldn’t awake. An icy chill enveloped his body at the thought of never seeing Jeremiah again. He raced back toward Jarrod’s house, not knowing what to do next.
Sarah and Jarrod had heard the commotion and were standing outside the house as Ryan raced back toward them. “My God, what’s happened?” Sarah screamed when she saw Ryan running toward them. “Where’s Jeremiah?”
“Someone’s taken him…someone’s taken Jer,” Ryan yelled. He came to a stop, bending over to catch his breath. “Call 911…we need help!” he pleaded, sounding mortally wounded.
Jarrod rushed back into the house.
“No…no…no…this can’t be happening,” Sarah moaned into Ryan’s chest as they held each other, standing in the middle of the lawn. “Oh, my God, where is he? What are we going to do…Ryan, why is this happening?” she shouted, pounding his chest with her closed fists.
“Shhh…shhh…it’s going to be okay. We’ll get him back, Sarah, I promise you,” Ryan whispered, holding her as close to him as he could manage. He was stroking her hair, trying to console her. “I promise you, Sarah, we’re not going to lose Jeremiah, too. I’ll die before I let anything happen to him. You listen to me now…we’re going to get him back, you hear me?”
He tried to keep his voice steady, but he knew in his heart he was just as scared as she was. There were no clues to follow-he hadn’t seen a license plate; he had no idea what the man looked like other than a brief description of his size; the van was nondescript; there didn’t seem to be any evidence that might help to locate their son.
There was no doubt in his mind that Jer was now embroiled in the same mind-numbing conspiracy that had brought him to Stanford in the first place. No way I lose Jer, too. I’ve got nothing else to lose. These guys are dead.
THIRTY-TWO
San Jose
01:30 HOURS
The first thing on Kilmer’s mind when they returned to the Bayshore warehouse was to call Holloway. He knew that even with the three-hour time difference it would be too early to call, but he would not be delayed. Kilmer was seething over the death of Dallas Weaver, not so much that it happened-he’d lost men before-but that his death could have been prevented.
Rafie’s assessment had been right on the mark; they had spent too little time investigating the guard deployment at the Livermore facility. On reflection, it made perfect sense for the lab to place a guard detail at this location, but to be unaware of this vital piece of information was unconscionable. Because of this oversight, the team had lost one of its most talented members.
Kilmer dialed Holloway’s secure phone and awaited the satellite link to connect him. To his surprise, Holloway answered immediately.
“Did you get the container?” Holloway asked abruptly, recognizing it was Kilmer’s number. Even though it was early morning in Nassau, he was anticipating the call.
“Yessir,” Kilmer replied respectfully, holding back his anger, his fist tightly gripping the phone, knuckles white from the pressure. “For the most part, everythin’ went accordin’ to plan.”
“So what’s the problem, then?” Holloway asked, sensing displeasure in Kilmer’s voice, and braced for more bad news.
“We lost Dallas Weaver. It could’ve been prevented,” Kilmer said, unbridling his anger. “I want the lame-brain who did the intel on this deal. We were jumped by guards at the containment room! We walked into a bloody hornets’ nest one second off the lift. Weaver was shot in the face, ya motherfucker,” he said, raising his voice. “This was bullshit planning. I want a name. ”
“That’s unfortunate news, but you can’t blame this on my source. Things change…you know this. The fact is the mission was successful; you got the package needed for the Knox job. Stay focused on the end game,” Holloway said, trying to make light of the situation.
“Yer not hearin’ me. This ain’t negotiable, sir, ” Kilmer emphasized, trying to manage his overflowing anger. “Eye for an eye. I want yer source. I’m pullin’ the plug without the prick’s name… now!”
“You insolent bastard, have you forgotten who you’re taking to?” Holloway replied.
He quickly began considering his options: if he didn’t give in to Kilmer’s demands, there wasn’t a ready alternative to getting the nuclear fuel he needed to make the antigravity machine operational; Kilmer also had Dr. Conrad under surveillance and was currently casing the Coscarelli woman. Holloway was in an untenable position. After brief consideration, he decided to acquiesce to this extortion, however unseemly it might be.
“Be careful where you take this, Richard,” Holloway said impassively, straining not to worsen his weak bargaining position. “You’re crossing the line. I don’t appreciate your tone or your demands. It’s very unprofessional. But, be that as it may, I will give you my source and expect that how you obtained it won’t be linked to me. But make no mistake…I won’t forget this defiance. The name of the source is McCauley…Steven McCauley.”
“Good oh, Mr. Holloway. And I don’t give a rat’s ass what ya think of me,” Kilmer said. “There’s payback for shoddy surveillance. Dallas paid the full quid for this piker’s incompetence. Settlin’ the score with McCauley will chill my mob’s demand for blood. Everythin’ else stays square. Conrad’ll be nabbed soon and we pick up the Coscarelli woman later today. Now, if ya don’t mind…I’m off to find this wanker McCauley.”
“Yes, you do that, Richard. We have several more tasks to complete before the ultimate…” He stopped short, suddenly realizing that their connection was terminated. Kilmer, this time, was first to hang up.
Insufferable Aussie prick, Holloway thought. No one hangs up on me. He can kiss my ass if he thinks I’ll pay the bonus money we stipulated. His insolence just saved me a boatload of cash. Nobody screws me over!
THIRTY-THREE
Stanford
02:30 HOURS
The flurry of late-night activity at 265 Lomita Lane was unprecedented for this quiet, scholarly neighborhood on the outskirts of the Stanford campus. There were police, paramedics, an ambulance, and a mobile news van that had all responded to Jarrod Conrad’s 911 call. Within minutes of that call, the private detective who had been following Sarah and Jeremiah recovered consciousness. He was groggy and barely able to communicate, his head severely wounded from the heavy blow by the unidentified assailant. When the first police car arrived, the officers dispatched paramedics to address his injury, and an ambulance subsequently arrived to rush him to the hospital.
Several small clusters of neighbors watched with keen interest all the commotion surrounding Dr. Conrad’s house. Flashing beacons shot alternating red and blue lights along the street, creating the surreal look of a CSI television crime show. The curious bystanders watched intently as the paramedics loaded an injured man into the ambulance, one paramedic passing the IV bag he was holding over the patient’s head to help his partner push the gurney inside. With the patient properly secured, the paramedics closed the doors and the ambulance sped away from the scene.
After calling 911, Ryan, Sarah, and Jarrod came to a hasty decision. If Ryan were discovered at the scene, PAPD would immediately place him under arrest. With outstanding warrants in New Mexico and California, Ryan’s only practical choice was to remain on the run. Moreover, they all agreed it was pointless to deny their presence at Jarrod’s because the injured private detective would eventually divulge his observations prior to being attacked.
“Okay, here’s my suggestion,” Jarrod stated, after analyzing their situation. “I’ll inform the police that you both took off in pursuit of Jeremiah’s kidnapper; that even over my strong objection, you believed it wasn’t in Jer’s best interest if Ryan was incarcerated. This should divert any initial suspicion we’re in this together.”