An hour earlier, Murello had landed at an airstrip thirty miles north of Los Angeles. He piloted the helicopter waiting there himself. It took twelve minutes to get to Gorman and the infrared equipment on board found the cabin after one pass. He landed in a small clearing and the wind kicked up by the rotating blades pushed back the bushes and tree branches. To his left was a late-model BMW SUV that had been hidden behind some brush. No one had seen or heard the helicopter; it was a stealth model with sound suppression technology for the rotors. Even standing outside the cockpit with the blades at full speed, it would sound only like a rushing stream, with a slight thup-thup rhythm. Jet black and loaded with sensors and other telecommunication equipment, it was virtually undetectable.
Murello dialed George’s cell phone again using equipment on the helicopter. A digital display showed the result of the calculation the on-board computer had made, using data from the nearby cell tower and a communications satellite overhead. He was able to triangulate the location and create a map using this information and the data collected on the flyby revealing the cabin. It looked like a ten-minute walk. The phone call to George would have alerted him, but Murello wasn’t worried. He set out.
Outside the cabin, George was in the middle of a dream about Budha, the Apocalypse, and a large chocolate milk shake. His phone buzzed angrily and the sound made its way into his dream as a horde of bees chased him around the Budha. He woke suddenly and grabbed the phone. The caller ID said Private Number. Seemed unlikely Josh had called; he’d know better than to call from a blocked phone. There were a few others who had this number, but they all knew their number had to be visible. Probably a random mistake. George smiled to himself at the thought. No such thing. He swung out of the hammock he’d strung between two large trees in what he liked to call his backyard and shook off the insulated sleeping bag. A quick check of the cabin from the outside to be sure Allison was sound asleep in the large master bedroom and he headed toward a cluster of trees a hundred yards away. Five minutes later he was lugging a large canvas case containing a hunting rifle with 500-yard scope, a mobile motion detector, night-vision goggles, and a flare gun. It was only a fraction of his arsenal, which was dispersed across several acres and carefully hidden, along with the permanent alarm equipment he’d embedded in the forest floor in a perimeter around the cabin. He’d disengaged the motion sensors while Allison was around so she wouldn’t trip it, but would reactivate it now. He was ready for whoever was on their way, whether it had anything to do with Allison or not. Coming around the corner of the cabin to the front porch George barely had time to think “Damn! I should have activated the motion sensors first,” after feeling a heavy, blunt object hit him behind the left ear and before slumping into unconsciousness. Murello took the canvas bag from George’s loosened grip and tossed it aside, then dragged him by the neck of his work shirt in the front door of the cabin.
------------------------------
Rigas was jerked awake by a loud sound, then settled back when she realized it had been a newspaper hitting the driveway. Goddamn couch made her neck hurt. She squinted at the window and thought she could make out the faint gray of pre-dawn. She yawned heavily and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. Another half hour and she’d go wake Barnes. She was surprised he wasn’t sitting in front of the computer all night. She twisted around and looked over at the screen, which she’d tilted toward the couch so she could peek at it in case a message came in. Nothing. But something caught her attention, something was wrong. She suddenly came fully awake and grabbed at her shoulder holster, which had twisted around while she slept. It was empty, as she knew it should be. But the gun wasn’t on the table in front of her. She jumped up and started a quick systematic search of the floor around the table and then the office, but she already knew it was gone. She ran into Barnes’ bedroom and flipped on the light. The bed was rumpled and empty. She didn’t bother searching the house and ran straight to the garage. Empty. Goddamnit, goddamnit. Out loud, “Son of a BITCH! You foolish, goddamn…” Rigas was tight-lipped and pissed. She was also worried. She ran back down the corridor to the office and pulled on her shoes. Gathering up her keys and PDA, she flipped it on and tried to think about what the hell to do. Goddamn Barnes was on his own.