DeSantos emerged from the periphery of the explosions, his clothes torn and his face covered in black soot. He stumbled toward the Black Hawk as the medevac attempted to land forty yards to the east.
Knox got to his feet, met DeSantos at the cockpit door, and yelled, “Scarponi?”
“Not there. Two other bodies, best I could see.” DeSantos climbed into the helicopter and began throwing switches. The rotors began accelerating to full speed. Out of the corner of his eye, Knox saw the medevac personnel approaching on the run from their own helicopter, a stretcher spread between them. To their left was another figure, breaking off from the paramedics and heading toward the Black Hawk.
“Where are you going?” Knox shouted to DeSantos.
“To pay off a debt.”
“Hector—”
“I’m going to find the son of a bitch.”
Just then, the approaching man came up alongside Knox. Knox grabbed his arm and pulled him close so he could be heard over the spinning rotor blades. “Rodman, go with Hector. I want Scarponi alive.”
Troy Rodman nodded, then ran to the other side of the cockpit and climbed into the front passenger seat. He lifted a pair of infrared goggles off a knob on the control panel and fastened the visor to his head.
Knox banged on the window beside DeSantos’s face. “Alive, Hector, I want him alive!”
Knox backed away and the bird lifted off. He ran toward Payne and Waller, where the paramedics had assessed Payne, started an IV line, and hooked him up to oxygen.
“I’m going with Payne in the medevac,” Knox said to Waller. “You stay here. Backup should be here any minute. Fill them in on what happened.” Knox trotted off toward the other helicopter, following the medics as they loaded the stretcher into the chopper. He had known when he signed on as FBI director there would be a certain amount of risk. But he had always thought the risk would be more from a stress-induced heart attack than from racing above the Virginia countryside in a helicopter chasing an escaped felon. That just wasn’t part of the job description.
As the bird lifted off, he was still feeling the pump of adrenaline. What other FBI director would get himself into a situation like this?
The lift from the blades brought the sensation of weightlessness, of being outside his body… kind of the way he felt when taking his morning runs. In response to his own question, he shook his head. The answer was obvious: no other director would do such a thing. But then again, no other FBI director had been army Special Forces in Vietnam.
No other director was Douglas Knox.
76
The medevac helicopter descended from the dark, windswept heavens and hit its mark on the helipad beside the Vandenheim Air Force Base Security Police Building, a stone’s throw from the adjacent military hospital. Knox leapt from the rear door of the chopper into intense brightness, as a circle of round mercury spotlights were trained on the landing pad. Before he took a step, he was met by several FBI agents and a contingent of Security Police in crisp, well-turned-out uniforms and polished boots. Bringing up the rear were two fatigue-clad men who headed straight for the director.
“Hodges and Ventura,” Knox yelled above the din of the Black Hawk’s blades, “when you’re done with Agent Payne’s body, meet me at Hangar Three-Fourteen.” The two OPSIG agents, colleagues of DeSantos, Archer, and Rodman, nodded and proceeded into the rear compartment of the helicopter.
Surrounded by the agents and police detail, Knox was ushered into the Security Police Building and through the armory, a rectangular room that was rimmed with stalls outfitted with military garb: bulletproof vests, helmets, two-way radios, and an assortment of paraphernalia a small troop would need heading into an emergency situation.
Knox entered the large assembly room and stopped. He gave a quick look around at the mass of security personnel and nodded.
“Okay. Bring our guests in here,” he said to one of the security cops.
Lauren Chambers sat beside Nick Bradley on a wooden bench in a small anteroom. When they had been escorted there shortly after their arrival, they were told they had to wait, as Harper Payne was being brought via ambulance to rendezvous with them at the base. Security Police were abundant, guarding every Entry Control Point and select areas in between.
They had sat for almost two hours without receiving so much as one update from the security cops. Lauren repeatedly asked for information, but each time she was told to sit down and wait patiently — or leave. Still, she knew they would not have allowed her to come there if they hadn’t intended to reunite her with Michael. Otherwise, what was the point? The government had their witness back, and whether or not Michael wanted to testify, at least he was safe. He could do his deed for the U.S. Attorney and then be free to go wherever he wished. Or so she hoped.
Suddenly, movement was everywhere. Several security cops moved into the room and two moved out. Three converged on one another near the far doorway and spoke in hushed tones, their rigid postures a sign of their training rather than the particular urgency of the situation, she figured. A moment later, one of the policemen turned to face them.
“Come with me,” he said, then ushered them down a long, spotless hallway.
They entered the assembly room and were led to a tall, silver-haired man, who was pacing in front of a closed door. His face was stern and stressed. He stopped in his tracks and looked at Bradley, completely ignoring Lauren’s presence. He nodded at two agents who had come up behind Bradley, then simply said, “Take him away.”
“What’s this about?” Bradley asked as one of the men snapped handcuffs on his wrists.
“You’re under arrest.”
“For what?”
“Wait a minute,” Lauren said, “he’s with me. There must be some kind of mistake.”
Another agent took hold of her arms and pulled her backward, out of the way. “There’s no mistake.”
“Please, Dr. Chambers, don’t interfere,” the man with the silver hair said.
The agents pulled a struggling Bradley through a set of doors ten feet away as he continued to argue with them. “I didn’t do anything…”
The metal door closed behind them and the room was suddenly quiet again.
“What’s going on? Who are you?” Lauren said.
“FBI director Douglas Knox.”
“Where’s my husband, where’s Michael?”
“It gets very complicated, Dr. Chambers.” Knox placed a hand on the crook of her elbow and indicated he wanted her to walk with him to a bench along the far wall. “If you’ll take a seat and allow me to explain—”
“I’m not interested in sitting,” she said, yanking her arm away. “And I’m not interested in talking. I just want to know where my husband is, Mr. Knox. I’ve been waiting here for two hours. Now either tell me where Michael is or I’ll go to the press and tell them what I know.” Her face felt blush red.
“And what exactly is it that you know?” Knox asked quizzically.
Lauren thought for a moment before answering. “I know that my husband isn’t dead.”
“Interesting. You’d tell them that, without knowing the whole story?”
“I’d tell them just about anything if it would make you tell me the truth!”
“Fine,” Knox said, his brow bunched with anger. “We’ll do it your way. You want to know where your husband is? He’s dead, Dr. Chambers, that’s where he is.”
Knox’s voice echoed in the painted cinder-block room. The scores of agents and Security Police were still. No one moved, no one spoke, no one seemed to breathe.
Lauren stood there looking at Knox, unsure whether he was telling her the truth. “That was just a story for the media, so Scarponi would stop trying to kill him.” Though she did not intend to project her uncertainty, there was a waver in her voice.