the Second Horseman (2006) Page 3

  He stepped close to the trunk of the tree, getting out of the rain as much as possible and stripped. After drying himself off as best he could, he put on the clothes, finding they fit perfectly, and reveled for a moment in the sensation of spreading warmth.

  There was also a small backpack in the duffle containing a water bladder with a hose to allow him to drink on the run, a few energy bars, and night vision goggles that he was familiar with from a job he'd done a few years back.

  He slung the pack on and stood, noticing for the first time a Polaroid photograph hanging next to the glow stick in the tree. It was a shot of the equipment he'd just put on, neatly laid out on the ground, but with one addition: a rather serious-looking hunting rifle.

  He powered up the goggles and looked around, but couldn't find the rifle. Most likely because it wasn't there. Whoever had set this up wasn't stupid. The men from the prison would track him here and be drawn to the photo by the glow stick. Nothing slowed down a thirty-grand-a-year prison guard like the thought that the guy he was chasing might be sighting him in from a hundred yards away. No real point in actually providing the rifle, though. If this thing came down to shooting, it was over.

  The phone began vibrating again and he reached down and picked it up.

  "Are you ready?"

  A few seconds ticked by before Brandon answered. "Yeah."

  Chapter FOUR

  "You wanted to see me, Richard?"

  Catherine Juarez stood in the middle of the office, hands clasped behind her back and foot tapping casually on the carpet. When she was a child he'd paid more attention: to the way she'd grown, to the dramatic changes in appearance that inevitably accompanied changes in fashion, and to what people more knowledgeable than him called phases. Now that she was a woman, though, it occurred to him that he didn't ever really look at her anymore.

  Her brow furrowed and the tapping of her foot became a bit more energetic as Richard Scanlon silently caught up on the much more subtle changes that had taken place over recent years.

  Her hair was dark, almost black, falling thick around her shoulders and partway down her back -- not the businesslike cut preferred by the other women in the office.

  Tan skin spoke partially to her father's genetic influence and partially to her lifestyle, as did her athletic build. Or maybe it was just that the older he got, the more fit these thirty-somethings looked.

  He'd hired her for a variety of reasons: her unusual combination of extraordinary intelligence and humanity, her creativity and courage, the deep loyalty born from their long history together. Interestingly, though, her appearance hadn't entered into his decision at all. Ironic that it was about to become so useful.

  "Richard? Are you all right? What did you need?"

  Scanlon leaned back in his chair and continued to examine her from across his desk. "What do you do after work?"

  "Do you have a new project? I can stay late if you --"

  He shook his head. "I mean, in the general sense. Are you dating anyone?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "A beautiful girl like yourself, I assume you have a fair number of suitors."

  "Nobody says 'suitors' anymore, Richard. Are you feeling all right?"

  "What about that musician? What was his name? Adrien? Allen?"

  Her expression melted into one of confusion. But with just a hint of suspicion. "Adam. That was in college, Richard. Ten years ago. I can't believe you remember him."

  Catherine was the closest thing he'd ever have to a daughter, and while he certainly had never tried to insinuate himself into her personal life, he paid more attention than she would have guessed. The young men had always been around, but never seemed to stay around. He wasn't sure why.

  "What about that professional skier? You seemed to really like him."

  Her expression remained so constant it had to have been a conscious effort. She'd definitely felt something for that one. It had been obvious even to him.

  "I'm guessing that there's a point here somewhere," she said, avoiding the question. "But I'm not sure I want to know what it is."

  He pointed to the door and she walked over to close it.

  "I've had a thought," he said, motioning to the chair in front of him.

  "About my love life?"

  "My understanding is that there is none."

  "That's funny. Thanks."

  "I've been thinking that since you seem to have some free time, maybe you should take charge of Brandon Vale."

  She blinked a few times. "What?"

  "Brandon Vale. I think you should be his contact."

  "I don't understand."

  "Am I not being clear?"

  "Richard, I came here from the NSA. You know what I did over there -- you got me the job. I'm an analyst, not an operative. Certainly not a handler. I don't know the first thing about it. Particularly handling a career criminal."

  He waved his hand dismissively and then began drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Of the eighty people I have working for me, only seven know anything about this operation -- and frankly that's too many. I don't have a lot of people to choose from for this assignment, Catherine. You know that."

  "Yeah, but every one of them has more operational experience than me. A lot more."

  He nodded slowly. "You hated your job at the NSA."

  "That's not true! I --"

  "Come on, Catherine. I pushed you into that job. The CIA had gone to shit and the FBI wasn't much better. But I think I was wrong. To put you in a cubicle like that. . ."

  "Richard, I appreciate what you did for me. The NSA was a great opportunity and a really good job."

  "And yet when I asked you to come here and work for me, you couldn't get out of there fast enough."

  "I like you," she said. "And you offered me more money."

  He smiled. "You ride a motorcycle to work every day."

  "Good gas mileage and it's easy to park."

  "And the judo lessons?"

  Her speech became a bit clipped as she got increasingly annoyed. "I can't stand aerobics."

  "And the hunting?"

  The uncertainty was completely gone from her face now and she'd moved fully into pissed-off territory. "Venison is less fatty than beef."

  He nodded and tilted his chair back in a submissive gesture that suggested he wasn't looking for a fight. "I'm serious, Catherine. I've given this a lot of thought. I don't need someone who can kill him with a piece of dental floss. I need someone who can think fast and improvise. Look, Brandon isn't an evil or violent man. He just has an unusual take on morality."

  She didn't respond immediately, and it seemed like she was using the time to beat down the intrigue subtly registering in her eyes.

  "From what I've read, he has no take on morality at all."

  "Don't start feeling too superior, Catherine. At this point, we aren't exactly what I'd call law-abiding citizens."

  "That's different, and you know it."

  He shrugged. "Obviously, I could send one of our former military or CIA people, but Brandon isn't going to respond to that. Trust me when I tell you he has a problem with authority."

  "I'm not sure how my involvement helps."

  "Oh, come on, Catherine. You know exactly how it helps. You're about his age, you're wound a hell of a lot looser than a former special ops guy or spy. And, as much as I hate to admit it, a little sex appeal is going to go a long way here. I mean he did just get out of prison . . ."

  "What are you suggesting?"

  "Oh, don't be such a prude. I'm not suggesting anything. Other than the fact that we're going to go with a soft sell here."

  "A soft sell," she said, shooting for skepticism but missing the mark a bit.

  "A soft sell," he repeated.

  They sat there in silence for a few moments and then she started shaking her head. Once she got going, it seemed like she couldn't stop.

  "No way, Richard. Okay, maybe I have, somewhere in the back of my mind, thought about moving a little
bit into the operational side. But there's too much at stake to just throw me out cold --"

  "So you don't think you can do it? Maybe you're right. Brandon might be more --"

  "Don't try reverse psychology on me, Richard. I'm not twelve anymore."

  "Too obvious?"

  "Yeah."

  "The jet's waiting for you. You're going to be late."

  She shot him an angry look but didn't say no. He knew exactly what she was thinking. She resented being railroaded into this but was absolutely dying to do it. Which side would win out?

  The question was answered when she rose and started for the door.

  "If you have any problems with him, call me on my secure line. Don't come in through the switchboard."

  Of course, it was unlikely that Hamdi was listening in on the phones there -- the security at the office was state of the art. But if their roles were reversed, Scanlon would be doing everything possible to keep a close eye on things. If there was a problem, he wanted a chance to deal with it before Hamdi found out. Brandon was a more critical piece of manpower than any of them wanted to admit, and it would be best if everything gave the appearance of going smoothly. Though it almost certainly wouldn't.

  "Your secure line," Catherine said, tilting her head slightly to one side.

  She was smart enough to know that there was more power behind this than just him, but she was also smart enough not to ask questions.

  "Oh, and one more thing." He pointed to the tan jacket and matching knee-length skirt she was wearing. "Maybe we could sex that up a bit?"

  Chapter FIVE

  Brandon Vale released the car's accelerator and looked at the GPS in the dashboard. Then he floored it again. The sensation of his back being pressed into the leather seat was liberating at first, but he knew it was just an illusion.

  The road he was speeding down was lined with broad trees and thick foliage, all beginning their transition from deep green to the more vibrant and varied colors of fall. It was really beautiful, and under normal circumstances he might have pulled over and gone for a stroll. These weren't normal circumstances, though.

  He released the accelerator again and this time drifted to a stop on the gravel shoulder. The combination of running desperately through the woods, driving all night, and looking for cops around every corner had left him way too tired. The few coherent thoughts he'd entertained since getting in the car and starting out on its preprogrammed route had long since deteriorated into a mess of paranoia, fear, and fantasy. He'd never been particularly strong or fast or tough. His only edge was the ability to think straight, and now even that had failed him.

  Yesterday he'd been a little more than a year from finishing out the sentence he'd been handed for that stupid diamond heist. Now he'd assaulted a guard and escaped from prison. Oh, and left behind a picture of a rifle. Couldn't forget that. No doubt he'd be nailed with threatening the life of a federal agent or something and get another five thousand years tacked on.

  He was thirty-three now and no matter how his fatigue-addled mind spun it, he wouldn't see the light of day until he was a hundred and six if he let himself get caught.

  Maybe he should just go back and explain himself. He tried it out loud in the empty car: "So the guard just threw me out, I swear! I assumed it was an overcrowding issue and I wanted to do my part to improve the prison experience for everyone, so I took off. Oh, and I was just kidding with the picture of the gun. Wasn't even loaded. Seriously."

  He rested his head on the steering wheel and tried to control the dizziness and nausea that had been coming in waves for the past few hours. It was even worse than when they'd read the guilty verdict that had sent him to prison. At least then he'd had some anger and indignation to hold on to. It was bad enough to get sentenced to prison for something you hadn't done, but to get blamed for a sloppily executed and not particularly lucrative diamond job just added insult to injury. Why couldn't he have gotten nailed for something he had done? Maybe that elegant little caper in Atlanta. Now that thing had been sweet . . .

  He lifted his head from the steering wheel and shook it violently. "Pull it together, Brandon! And think! Time to get yourself out of this."

  He made his third search of the interior of the car, more to get his blood circulating than in an expectation of finding anything. When he'd gotten in, there had been a change of clothes, a few bottles of water, and a couple of sandwiches wrapped in foil.

  Otherwise it had been -- and still was -- empty. Not so much as an errant potato chip stuck between the seats.

  He threw the car in gear again and made a screeching U-turn, driving up the wrong side of the road and skidding to a stop in front of a mailbox with the number 186 stenciled on it.

  This was it, the address that had been programmed into the dashboard GPS. What was at the end of that long, narrow drive? Death? Doubtful. Too much effort had been expended to get him there. He'd made a lot of friends in prison, but it wasn't like most of them wouldn't have shiwed him for a carton of smokes. The best he could have hoped for was that they'd be briefly conflicted about it.

  "In or out?" he said aloud, wondering if someone was listening. Probably. Listening and watching.

  He turned up the winding driveway, coaxing the car forward. Within a few seconds, the road behind him disappeared and a haphazardly maintained single-story house began to reveal itself. He wasn't sure what he'd expected -- maybe some modern concrete and glass monstrosity with gun turrets. This was kind of a larger version of his grandmother's old cottage. She used to stand on --

  Focus, dumb-ass!

  He eased to a stop only a few feet from the house's faded porch and stepped out, leaving the car door open and the keys in the ignition.

  A quick check of the front door suggested it wasn't locked. No point in knocking. It seemed that he was expected.

  There were no gunmen or muscle-bound guys with flattened noses standing in the entry to meet him -- just a bunch of doily-covered furniture that looked and smelled old.

  "Honey, I'm home!" he shouted, not sure what else to do. His voice echoed through the house and a moment later a woman with a thick head of long, dark hair appeared at the end of the hall. She was actually wearing an apron.

  "Good timing. Dinner's almost ready."

  Then she disappeared again.

  He stood frozen for a few seconds and then started forward. After everything he'd gone through, the least he deserved was a decent meal.

  Chapter SIX

  The sun had set and now the sky's fading glow competed with illuminated storefronts and the headlights of cars inching along the clogged Jerusalem street.

  Jamal Yusef lifted the cup in front of him and took a sip of the thick coffee it contained, the caffeine mingling with the adrenaline already coursing through him. He twisted around and held up three fingers to the waitress working the tables lined up along the sidewalk. She gave him a hard, suspicious glare and then an aggravated nod.

  Despite the fact that the temperature had dropped ten degrees with the sun, he couldn't stop sweating. Grabbing an already damp napkin, he dabbed at his forehead, catching a thick drop before it started down his long, straight nose. It was the fifth time he'd done it and he cursed himself silently. The Jews at the adjoining tables would be watching for anything that could be construed as out of the ordinary.

  He smiled easily, as though in reaction to the carefully crafted small talk coming from the man across the table, but he was actually focused on the movie theater across the street.

  The line had begun to move about five minutes ago, and he watched the animated conversations of the people slowly disappearing through a set of heavy double doors. Their expectation was that they would be treated to the latest Hollywood blockbuster -- apparently the story of a professional wrestler's family travails. And that expectation would have been fulfilled, except that the cousin of the man sitting opposite Yusef was attending the film as well. A very devout and passionate Muslim, he had entered with a significant amo
unt of plastic explosive wrapped around his left leg. It was now inevitable that within a half hour, hundreds would be either dead or horribly wounded. And what was Yusef going to do about that? Sit there and let his coffee eat away at the ulcers he was convinced were growing in his stomach.

  It wasn't exactly the life he'd imagined for himself.

  His parents, both still alive and living near Chicago, were immigrants from Lebanon--people proud of their heritage and observant of their religion, but also anxious to provide opportunity for the son growing in his mother's womb.

  He wondered what they would think of the path he'd chosen? How they would feel about the fact that he'd allowed the CIA to lure him into their ranks with the irresistible promise that he'd be the first of a new generation of operatives -- a generation that understood its opponents and could move silently among them. The first step in a completely revamped intelligence machine that would promote peace, freedom, and equality around the globe.

  But now here he was, trying to reconcile his dreams with what he'd become. And what exactly was that? One of the men who trained him had suggested that Yusef refer to himself as Bond. Ayatollah Bond. Rendered with an exaggerated combination of Arab and British accents, he'd taken it as a good-natured gibe. But now he wasn't so sure. On the verge of exercising his de facto license to kill, the joke came back to haunt him.

  When he'd finally completed his training, Yusef s assignment -- his only assignment--had been to penetrate as deeply into the al-Qaeda network as he could. What he had to do to accomplish that mission was unimportant. In fact, his involvement in the planning of this attack on Jewish civilians had been officially, if quietly, condoned by his superiors. That didn't make it any easier to live with, though. More and more, he lay awake at night, trying to force himself to consider the bigger picture -- what these few casualties would eventually allow him to accomplish. It didn't help him sleep, though. Nothing did anymore.

  Pathetically, his great achievement in all this -- the only thing he'd done in a long time that didn't stink of evil -- was convincing the men carrying out the attack to target a theater playing an R-rated film in order to reduce the toll on children. And that, in this part of the world, was what passed for a benevolent deed.