A ramp in the rear came down, and Harry carried her on board. As he settled her down in the cargo web seating around the inside of the cargo bay, the ramp closed. The ramp swung shut and the pilots increased power, lifting the Osprey out of the snow and into the sky.
As the wings rotated forward, the plane’s velocity increased, and it roared off to the west.
“We’re moving you up to Schofield Barracks,” the agent said as he slapped the cuffs back on Boomer’s wrist.
“We don’t want your friends to get any strange ideas about breaking you out.” Boomer had heard him called Lucas by one of the other men who had been guarding him, and he filed that information for possible later use.
After being brought out of the Royal Hawaiian, Boomer had been taken to a secure room at the small MP station on Port Derussy for safekeeping.
From what he had heard so far, these men knew about him, Skibicki, and Vasquez.
He’d even heard one of the agents say something about Trace in New York.
Boomer had no doubt now that The Line existed. He couldn’t believe Senator Jordan simply taking General Martin’s word. They were all insane with their complacency.
These diplomats were too sure that the wheels of justice and normalcy would turn properly and everything would stay in its correct place, but Boomer knew better. He’d been there on that hillside in the Ukraine.
He knew the men of The Line were willing to sacrifice innocent lives to achieve their goals.
Of course. Boomer reminded himself, he’d been too complacent also.
Waiting a day for Trace to surface with the diary, if that’s what she’d gone to West Point for. Expecting someone else to do something about The Line.
Boomer twisted his hands inside the cuffs as Lucas led him to a waiting unmarked car. He pushed Boomer into the back seat and slid in beside him. Another man in civilian clothes was at the wheel. They didn’t look like cops, military or not, to Boomer. Both men had the hard set to their face that said they were professional soldiers who had seen action. Lucas took a pair of cuffs that had a foot-long chain in the middle and snapped one around each ankle, ensuring that Boomer could not run.
“Let’s go, Mike,” Lucas ordered.
As the car rolled out the main gate to Fort Derussy and turned west.
Boomer tumbled the pieces in his mind: Keyes and the team from 1st Group probably hiding on the north shore; Colonel Decker in the tunnel; the Sam Houston somewhere off shore; General Martin and the Joint Chiefs ensconced at Pearl. Skibicki and Vasquez were now alone against an organization that seemed to be everywhere and know everything. Boomer was afraid to even think what may have happened to Trace.
Boomer looked around. They couldn’t allow him to live.
The thought made more sense than anything that had happened so far on this confused day.
They were on I’ll and shortly made the turn onto H2, which ran up the center of the Hawaii to Schofield Barracks, home to the Army’s 25th Infantry Division. Boomer knew he didn’t have much time to act.
He was surprised when they pulled off the highway well short of the exit for Schofield Barracks. They were on a dirt road that descended off the shoulder of H 1, then looped underneath it next to a stream. An old rusted sign read WAIKAKALAUA AMMO STORAGE TUNNELS SITE. The road was on low ground following the small stream, and the terrain rose steeply on either side.
They passed a long-abandoned guard shack and entered the site. Row upon row of steel doors were cut into both hillsides. A few of the doors were askew, opening into dark tunnels. Others were padlocked.
The entire area looked deserted.
“No one’s going to find you for a long time,” Lucas said as he pulled up. to one of the open tunnels.
Boomer didn’t bother to reply. Days of frustration snapped as he realized the depth of his predicament. He twisted and slammed both hands into Lucas’s face, stunning him. Before he could recover. Boomer looped the cuffs over Lucas’s head and pulled him in, increasing pressure on his throat.
As Mike slammed on the brakes. Boomer used Lucas to anchor him as he lifted his feet up over the driver’s seat headrest, splitting them to the maximum allowed by the chain, and then dropping his feet down on either side of Mike’s head. He flexed his hamstrings, and the chain grabbed hold of Mike’s neck and pulled him up against the headrest.
Boomer tightened every muscle in his body, contracting like a snake as both men desperately struggled against the chains around their necks.
He felt blows in his chest from Lucas while the driver tore at his ankles.
The driver was the smarter of the two as it finally occurred to him after almost twenty seconds of getting choked to pull his gun. The problem was he had his back to Boomer and he couldn’t move because of the pressure against his neck. Mike twisted his arm and fired blindly.
Boomer felt the bullet speed by his face, hearing it impact with flesh.
His face was splattered with blood. Lucas went slack and Boomer maintained his pressure on Mike as he spared a glance to the other side of the back seat. The bullet had hit Lucas in the jaw and taken off most of the top of his head.
Another shot and the bullet shattered the right rear passenger window.
The gun finally fell from unconscious fingers, but Boomer maintained the pressure for another minute against the possibility of a ruse.
Finally, he lifted his legs and brought them back into the back seat.
He went through Lucas’s pockets, ignoring the blood that was soaking his clothes and retrieved the keys for the cuffs. Boomer unlocked himself. He took the gun out of Lucas’s shoulder holster, then the holster itself. A Berretta 92, military-issue.
He strapped it on under his shirt. He checked just to verify — Lucas was carrying a DIA ID card just like the others had.
Boomer got out of the backseat and opened the driver’s door. He checked for a pulse: none. Pushing the body over, Boomer took the wheel. He drove into the ammunition storage bunker between the open steel doors. The car narrowly fit through and he parked inside. He took the leg cuffs with him as he went back out. Shutting the doors.
Boomer locked them with the leg cuffs, then threw the key into the stream.
Orienting himself. Boomer began walking back east, toward the mountains and Waiwa where he hoped to find at least Vasquez, maybe Skibicki. If not — Boomer didn’t even pause in his terrain-eating stride — if not, well then he’d continue on and do whatever needed to be done to stop.
CHAPTER 23
Trace noticed a slight change in the Osprey’s speed and twisted on the web seating, peering out the window. Below, she spied the snow-covered mountains of Utah. The V-22’s propellers were laboring in the thin air to keep it going.
They were heading into the sun, which was low on the horizon.
Trace had slept quite a bit. Harry stayed at her side, only occasionally going up to the cockpit. Trace had settled her leg up on the web seat as comfortably as possible while at the same time trying to avoid twisting her ribs into a painful position. Harry had helped by placing two kit bags on the seat to give her some support.
Trace noticed a reflection to her right and tried to focus in the dwindling sunlight. Soon she didn’t have to squint as the object came closer on an interception vector. Trace wondered what a twin-bladed Chinook was doing here. The answer wasn’t long in coming. The Chinook swung out in front of the Osprey, the reason the V-22 had slowed down.