3

AT SOME POINT IT HAD STARTED TO RAIN. Jack wasn’t sure when it had happened; he couldn’t remember even turning on the wipers. But as he pulled off SR74 and onto the gravel road of the small airfield, the light rain created rivulets tracing their way down the windshield. The road had been absent any other vehicles for almost thirty minutes, and as the headlights of the much-abused car arced out over the airfield, there wasn’t even a hint of movement.

The boys were asleep in the back, having lost the fight with adrenaline and fear about an hour out of Ellen. It hadn’t taken them long to start asking questions, but they’d only done so after the first stop to pick up the disposable phones, after Jack thought they were far enough away from the carnage behind them.

The problem Jack faced was that he had no idea what to say to the boys. How did one explain a pursuit by ghosts from his past?

He’d checked in with Duckey a few times, but their conversations had been brief, only long enough to create some communication moats between them and anyone who might have been listening. And to arrange a flight.

The airfield had a single runway, designed for small aircraft. The tower was dark, as were the field’s two hangars. The gravel crunching beneath the car’s tires sounded louder than normal as they neared the buildings. There wasn’t another vehicle in sight, no sign that another human being had been there in a long time. Jack looked at the dashboard clock. It was approaching midnight. He and his family were late in getting there, and he started to wonder if Duckey’s friend had already left, thinking they weren’t going to show.

Next to him, Espy scanned the flatland. In the darkness, Jack couldn’t read her evaluation, and she didn’t comment. He took her silence as tacit agreement that they needed to continue on, even if she was beginning to get the feeling, as he was, that there was danger lurking in this quiet place.

Not long after leaving the outskirts of Ellen, Jack had filled Espy in on the call from Duckey that had sent them running. She’d absorbed the scant information and then, after a nod, settled back to see how things played out. She had a different set of priorities now than she did years ago in Australia, where the two of them buried the bones of Elisha rather than turn them over to Jack’s employer, and those priorities were sleeping in the seat behind them.

They were almost at the hangars before Jack saw the cracked door, a gap of no more than three inches through which he could see the faintest of lights inside. He stopped the car and cut the engine, and the silence that followed was just about total, save for a hint of labored breathing from Jim, a slight rasp. Jack didn’t move for several seconds but just sat and studied the hangar, more a weathered shed with large swinging doors. Then, without asking Espy to remain in the car with the boys, he opened the door and stepped out into the night air, leaving the keys in the ignition.

The rain was cold on his neck as he took his time walking to the hangar door. Once there, he peeked through the crack. He couldn’t see much of anything, not even an undefined shape. Understanding that whoever might be inside saw the headlights as they drove up, not to mention heard the sound of tires on gravel, he put a hand on the door and gave it a shove. It slid more readily than he’d expected, moving as if on a well-oiled track, revealing the source of the dim illumination—a single utility work light hanging from a hook in the ceiling. Beneath the glow of the light, a man was leaning into the cockpit of an airplane. Once Jack had stepped inside the hangar, escaping the rain, it took the man several seconds to acknowledge him. Even then it took almost a full minute before the man pulled back from the plane and turned toward Jack.

“You must be Jack,” he said.

“Which makes you Russell,” Jack answered.

Russell Hodges stepped forward, giving Jack a better view of a man around his own age, maybe a few years older. He wore worn jeans, a rumpled shirt, and cowboy boots. Hodges smiled and offered Jack a hand, and even if the man hadn’t been a friend of Duckey’s, it was the kind of smile that would have won Jack over anyway.

“Jim tells me you’re in a bit of trouble,” Hodges said.

Jack smirked and shook his head. “Duckey’s always had a talent for understatement.”

At that, Russell’s smile took on a different aspect, almost conspiratorial. “They don’t make many like him.” Then Hodges looked past Jack, to the open door and to the car where Espy and the boys waited. Jack turned around and saw that the younger one, Jim, was awake now, his face pressed to the window.

“Precious cargo,” Russell said.

“That they are,” Jack agreed. “And tired cargo.”

Russell chuckled and gestured to the plane. “She’s just about set. And once we’re up in the air, she flies pretty smooth, so you folks should be able to catch a nap while we’re getting you someplace safe.”

“I don’t suppose Duckey’s suggested a destination?”

Russell shook his head. “My impression is that he’s going to work that out with you.”

Until Russell said it, Jack hadn’t given much thought to where they would ultimately end up. It was enough to keep moving and let Duckey direct him. Now, though, he realized that he and Espy had some serious decisions to make.

“All that’s important right now is that we get this bird in the air,” Russell said. “We can figure out the rest of it after that.”

The “bird” was a twin-engine plane, a sleek-bodied six-seater, its tail adorned with the Piper logo.

“It’s a Seneca V,” Russell said, noticing that Jack was looking the plane over. “Had her about a month.” He ran a hand over the wing. “Just about have the kinks worked out of her.”

In the past, Jack had taken more than his share of flights in planes that were little better than flying tubs—planes that flouted the laws of physics every time they got airborne. So he knew the plane in front of him was not for the faint of wallet.

“I don’t know how Duckey talked you into this but I can’t thank you enough,” Jack said.

Russell waved him off. “Jim and I go back a ways and I couldn’t remember if I owed him a favor or if he owed me one. So I figured I’d err on the side of caution and build some equity.”

“Do you mind if I ask how you know him?”

“The Company” was Russell’s simple response, and Jack knew right away not to expect elaboration. Even Duckey rarely talked about his CIA days, despite his and Jack’s long friendship.

“Give me a minute or so and then I can taxi the plane out of here. Then you can pull your car in. That’ll keep it out of sight for a while.” Hodges grabbed a rag and began wiping his hands. After a few moments he looked up, a grim expression on his face. “They’ll find it eventually, though.”

In that moment it occurred to Jack that Russell knew more about the people who were after him than he did himself. Which meant that Hodges and Duckey had talked over a few things while Jack was in transit.

“Any chance you can let me in on the secret?” Jack asked, half expecting the man to tell him to take it up with Duckey. So he was a little surprised when Hodges answered.

“The Company,” he said again, the corner of his mouth taking a rueful turn.

Jack’s initial response was silence, and it took a while before he realized that was because, of all the entities Russell might have mentioned, the CIA was far from being on the list. It was also a revelation that sent a shiver up his back, and explained Duckey’s almost frantic phone call. He opened his mouth, but Duckey’s former associate cut him off.

“Before you ask, I have no idea why they’re after you. And, frankly, it’s none of my business.”

A statement like that left little else to say, and so Jack nodded and started to head back to the car. Then something occurred to him. “You said they’d find my car. Won’t that mean they’ll know it was you who helped us escape?”

Russell chuckled, shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry about that. This hangar belongs to them. And one of the things my former employers taught me was how to use available resources without leaving a trace.”

He laughed then, and Jack couldn’t help but smile as he walked back to the car.

When he slipped back in, Espy communicated everything she needed to with a single raised eyebrow.

So Jack responded with a gesture that did about the same thing: a shrug. It took less than a second before he understood his mistake.

Although the passing years had tempered a bit of Esperanza’s legendary fire, there were times when Jack caught a glimpse of the woman who’d once traipsed around the globe with him, and who wasn’t afraid to dole out a punch or two along the way. In fact, there were times he was amazed that he’d survived those early years reasonably intact. Now he could tell that his response had awakened that younger, nonmaternal version of his wife, if only in the fierceness he saw in her eyes.

“Uh-oh, Mom’s mad,” Jim said.

“I’m not really sure how this is my fault,” Jack tried.

Espy didn’t say anything right away. Instead she just looked at him, with the same steely, unflinching gaze that had often brought the boys to obedience without her having to say a word. And under that gaze, Jack felt like a ten-year-old. He was just about to speak when she beat him to it.

“I know it’s not your fault,” she said, “but I have to hold someone responsible for the situation we’re in, and you’re the only one handy.”

“Okay, I can see how this is at least partially my fault,” Jack said, trying to head off her anger. “If I hadn’t gone looking for the bones, then this wouldn’t be happening. But in my defense, I haven’t done anything recently to cause the CIA to come after us.” He paused to weigh the validity of that statement. “Okay, maybe the occasional box of Cubans Duckey gets me every so often, but beyond that—”

A voice from the back seat interrupted him.

“What bones?” Alex asked, his voice heavy with sleep.

Jack turned toward the boys. “I promise I’ll explain, guys. Someday. But right now we have to get ready to take a little trip.”

Alex pointed at the plane. “Where are we going?”

“Yeah, where are we going?” Jim repeated.

“It’s a surprise,” Jack said, and the boys seemed to accept his response. When he turned back to Espy, to see if the sidebar with the boys had allowed sufficient time for her anger to disperse, he was greeted by a wholly different expression—one that prompted a raised eyebrow. “What?”

“What’s this about the CIA?” Espy asked.

“Oh, that.” Jack took in a long breath, releasing it as he considered how things had changed even since they’d arrived at the airfield. He was just about to tell her what he’d learned from Russell when he remembered the other two members of their party. He glanced in their direction, then back at Espy. “How about we talk about it once we’re in the air?”

He could see that she was reluctant to let the matter go, her eyes promising him that the conversation wasn’t over. Jack was saved from pondering that, though, because Russell emerged from the hangar and slid both doors open wide.

“Why don’t you take the boys and get them buckled in,” Jack said to Espy. “I’m going to touch base with Duckey and see if he has any thoughts about our destination.”

As Espy exited the car with the boys, Jack pulled out one of the disposable phones, punching in Duckey’s number.

“Okay, how about we figure out how to get you out of this mess?” Duckey said before Jack could get a word out.

“Hey, Ducks.”

“Hey back,” his department head returned. He sounded tired. “I assume you’re in the air?”

“Not yet. Espy’s getting the boys loaded up now.”

“Good. So now we just need to figure out where you’re going.”

“I have an idea or two along those lines, but first can we back up a bit?”

“You’re right,” Duckey said. “There probably are a few things we need to get out of the way first.”

“Maybe a few,” Jack agreed. “For starters, why is the CIA interested in the bones?”

“Did Russell tell you that? Because he’s only partially right. The man who’s after you is Marcus McKeller. He’s an agent, but this isn’t a CIA project.” Duckey paused. “He’s a rogue agent, Jack. He doesn’t report to anyone.”

Jack absorbed that, wondering if that was a better or worse state of affairs. “Why is he after the bones?”

“I did some digging when I started to hear things,” Duckey said. “It seems his wife has cancer. Bad prognosis, maybe two months.”

“I guess that’s as good a reason as any,” Jack said. “But how did he find out about them?”

“To put it in the simplest terms—the diversified business interests of the late Gordon Reese.”

Jack considered that, and it didn’t take long before he understood. When ailing billionaire Gordon Reese hired him to find Elisha’s bones some thirteen years ago, the world knew him primarily as a technology magnate, and yet someone with his kind of money had his hands in many pots. “Reese did some work for the government,” Jack posited.

“Not just some work,” Duckey said. “Reese Industries has contracts with just about every government agency. And from what I’ve been told, some of those contracts involve top-shelf projects—the kind that require pretty high security protocols.”

Jack nodded, his eyes moving to the plane. Espy was getting herself and the boys situated inside the aircraft. “Okay, I get that. Because Reese’s company does some hush-hush work for Washington, the government keeps an eye on them. But Reese has been dead for more than a decade. Why is your agency friend only coming after me now?”

“Listen, Jack, just because he’s Langley doesn’t mean he’s a friend of mine. I’ve been out of that line of work for a long time. I hardly even know anyone over there anymore.”

Jack decided not to remind him that, apparently, he still had contacts enough to give him advance warning that someone was coming to Jack’s home.

“As to why nothing’s happened sooner, my guess is that it’s just simple bureaucracy. When Reese died, someone in Washington probably got nervous about the state of Reese Industries, even though he’d essentially ceded control to his son almost a year before he kicked it.”

“They were worried that a man who knows he’s dying might be a security risk,” Jack said.

“So they went through his files,” Duckey added. “And not just his business files, his personal ones too.”

“I’m not going to get into how I feel about their ability to do that.”

“You have no idea, believe me. When you’re talking a company the size of Reese Industries, you’re getting into a volume of data that would rival the Library of Congress. My guess is they did a keyword scan on everything, and anything that didn’t get a hit would have been set aside.”

“So Reese kept information about the bones in his personal files, which were then copied over to a government server.”

“Where it sat unnoticed until, as best as I can tell, about two months ago,” Duckey said.

“When Marcus McKeller discovered it,” Jack said.

“I started to hear some things a while back. Someone asking questions. I still have a few friends over there, and they let me know.”

“And now McKeller’s looking for me because Reese’s notes told him I’m the last link in the chain of possession.” Jack said it more to himself than to Duckey, working things out in his head. “I guess what I’m having a problem with, Ducks, is why he wouldn’t just come and ask me. I mean, if you send a few CIA agents to someone’s house, they’re usually pretty forthcoming. Why the heavy-handed approach?”

“A threat to one’s loved ones can make a man do crazy things,” Duckey said. “Also, since this is an off-the-books op, McKeller couldn’t rely on his CIA status to get you to cooperate.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Jack said.

“There’s something else, Jack,” Duckey said. “I told you that McKeller’s gone rogue, which means he’s not using CIA personnel for this. He’s paying outsiders. Some of them will be ex-Langley, others probably retired cops.”

“Mercenaries,” Jack said.

“Something like that.”

Jack released a sigh. “Well, tell me about this guy. What am I facing here?”

“He’s NCS.”

“NCS?”

“National Clandestine Service,” Duckey answered. “Under normal conditions, he would know where you are even before you know that’s where you’re going.”

Jack knew he was tired because that almost made sense to him.

“And he’s good at his job. A real technical wizard. Meaning he’ll be managing this thing by himself, using only the resources he knows he can trust.” Duckey paused. “You couldn’t have done much worse than tangle with this guy, Jack.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Jack said.

“Don’t mention it.”

“But at least if he’s working solo, he can’t use the entire array of CIA tricks he’d normally have at his disposal.”

“Probably not,” Duckey said. “Don’t fool yourself, though. Even if all he has are the people who were in and out of your house in less than five minutes, you’re still in serious trouble.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “How do you know how long they were in my house?”

“Because you live about a hundred yards away from me, and I did used to do this sort of thing for a living, remember?”

“Something I’ve been thankful for, and more than once,” Jack said. A wave from Russell caught his eye, prompting Jack to hurry. “So tell me about your friend Russell.”

“About as decent a guy as you’ll find,” Duckey said. “And a good pilot. Don’t let the hand fool you.”

Jack frowned. “The hand?”

“He lost it to an IED in Iraq,” Duckey explained.

Jack found his eyes moving to the plane again. Espy was descending its stairs. She caught Jack’s eye and then headed back toward the car. As his wife drew closer, Jack looked past her, finding Russell Hodges doing something at the back of the plane. He couldn’t see the man’s hands at the moment, but then he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary about them when they were talking together earlier. For some reason, he felt something dark and cold settle in his stomach. “Ducks, does he use a prosthetic?”

“Sometimes” came the reply. “He has one of those hard plastic ones. Nothing fancy. Why?”

Espy had almost reached the car, and Jack shifted his focus until he caught her looking back at him. Then he directed his attention back to Hodges, who’d emerged from behind the plane. He went up the aircraft’s stairs. Jack thought he saw two perfectly normal looking hands. Just before Hodges climbed into the plane, he turned and looked toward the car. Jack saw a hint of something in his expression, maybe a smile.

Espy had a hand on the door handle when Jack dropped the phone. She’d slipped the gun into the console between them, and Jack reached for it. He opened the door just as Espy opened hers. He didn’t pause to answer her puzzled query before starting for the plane.

He heard the engines rumble to life, the twin propellers spinning.

It had been years since he’d held a gun with the willingness to use it, years since the events of his life had conspired to make him welcome the feel of the cold metal in his hand. There had also never been an occasion in which a man who Jack knew was not named Russell Hodges stood between him and his boys.

This other man must have seen him coming because, before Jack reached the plane, he appeared again at the aircraft door. He raised a gun toward Jack.

Jack raised his own gun and almost squeezed off a shot, and it took everything in him to keep from doing it, knowing the boys were in the plane.

“Jack?” Espy called from behind, but her husband didn’t answer, his attention wholly on the man who stood between him and his children. Whoever he was, he didn’t shoot, although he had as clear a shot at Jack as he could want.

Jack took a step closer. The man calling himself Russell Hodges extended his gun, and Jack stopped moving. Behind him, Espy had gone silent, likely having put the pieces together.

“So, what now?” Jack asked.

“You put your gun down and climb aboard and I take you to meet someone who has some questions for you,” the man said.

Jack was shaking his head before the man—apparently some kind of mercenary—had finished. “I have a better idea. You let the boys go and you can take me wherever you want.”

The man shook his head. “You don’t have the high ground, Dr. Hawthorne. Your only option at this point is to do exactly as you’re told.”

As much as Jack hated to admit it, he couldn’t argue the point. “Who are you?” he asked, since it was clear the man was not Duckey’s friend. Jack stopped himself from considering what that meant for the missing Russell Hodges.

“Someone doing a job” was the response. The man gestured again with his weapon. “Now drop the gun.”

Jack took a deep breath, coming to the realization that he didn’t have much of a choice. He was just about to lower the gun when his eye caught movement from the plane, from behind the mercenary. He caught a glimpse of brown hair, a black jacket—Alex’s jacket. His heart jumped into his throat, but he clamped down on the shout that wanted to escape. He moved his eyes back to the enemy, locked them there. “I need some assurances. I need to speak to your boss. He has to convince me there can be some end to this that my family and I can walk away from before I get on that plane.”

He felt, more than saw, Espy step up next to him. She had to have seen Alex. Jack’s son was slipping up behind his captor. Jack saw his face for just a second, a mix of fear and resolve.

It took a moment before the man responded to Jack’s request, and he did so by putting a hand in his pocket and withdrawing a phone. He flipped it open, glanced down.

There was a flurry of movement behind him—Alex rushing. Jack’s son hit the mercenary hard. The man pitched forward, Alex’s weight taking him halfway out of the open door. But before he fell from the plane, the man reached out and grabbed the doorframe. His phone clattered to the tarmac.

For just an instant, Jack had a full view of his older son, the boy clearly framed in the doorway. He was breathing hard, a look on his face that seemed to express surprise over what he’d done. He was looking at the man he’d hit, but his eyes soon moved to his father. Jack stepped forward.

Before he could close the distance, the mercenary regained his balance. Jack saw the man’s arm swing back, saw it catch Alex under his chin. The blow sent the boy flying back into the recesses of the plane. Jack heard Espy scream.

Jack shut the sound out. The mercenary filled the doorway, his attention pulled in another direction. Jack had a clear shot. He brought the gun up, steadied it. And hesitated. He couldn’t pull the trigger. If he missed . . .

The moment was gone, and before Jack could take another step forward, the man had brought his own gun level. Jack could hear Espy choking back a sob, yet he couldn’t look away from the man and from the plane that held his injured son.

Then the nameless man did something unexpected. Keeping his attention on Jack, he crouched and reached for the stair pull. He had the stairs retracted before Jack could register what was happening. The aircraft’s door was closing, and only then did Jack’s legs begin to move. He rushed toward the plane, but the door was shut and locked before he could make it there. Seconds later the plane began to roll.

A wave of panic came over Jack. He ran alongside the plane, pounding on the door as it taxied away from the hangar. He was shouting, but his words were lost to the increasing sound of the engines. He backed away, thought to circle around to the cockpit window, to try to get a shot off. But as he moved to get around the wing, to avoid the deadly propellers, the plane’s pilot executed a sharp turn and began accelerating toward the runway.

Jack’s panic had turned into real fear—a fear unlike any he’d ever known. As the plane picked up speed, he tried to keep up, running alongside it like a madman. He held the gun helplessly in one hand while with the other he banged on the cold metal of the aircraft. It didn’t take long for the plane to leave him behind, to leave him watching the gap that widened between him and his sons. By the time the plane reached the runway, it was too far ahead for Jack to do anything but stare as its pilot opened the throttle and lowered the flaps.

Before long, the plane was in the air.

Jack stood frozen on the tarmac, watching the plane become a vanishing point in the dark sky. From behind him came the sound of Esperanza’s unchecked sobs.