72 Hours (A Thriller) (7 page)

Smackdown was skeptical.
 
“Quite a story there, man.
 
Maybe I believe you and maybe I don’t.
 
You were there, huh?
 
You with the hombres?”

“Dude, no way.
 
My weapon is my camera.
 
I’m in the biz.
 
You follow?”

“Yeah, bro, I follow.”

“Got them cornered down a dead-end street, but they’ve gone under a rock.
 
So I called you.
 
Thought maybe together we can smoke them out, get them on the move again.
 
That way you get ears and I get pics.
 
What do you say?”

Smackdown sucked the Marlboro down to the filter.
 
He was ready to get the rabbit on the run again.

“OK, I’m with you, bro.
 
Get your camera ready.
 
Give me the street name, and I’ll light a fire under her.”

“Awesome.”

“What’s your name, bro?”

“I’m Soji.”
 

Smackdown was in no hurry.
 
He intended to savor every second.
 
His boy Soji had hit him with the golden ticket. Not an exact address, but at least a street.
 
Soji was sitting at the top of a residential development somewhere above Malibu, watching and waiting.
 
He had assured Smackdown that it would be impossible for Lindsay Hammond to make a getaway without him noticing.
 
He promised to keep Smackdown updated.

So Smackdown had the info the world wanted.
 
Hammond had momentarily slipped through the cracks and hidden under a rock.
 
But he now had his foot on that rock.
 
He intended to stretch this out.
 
Build suspense.
 
Fuel anticipation.
 
Create demand.
 
He wanted every ear on the planet tuned to his show, listening to the sound of his voice.
 

CHAPTER 20

A call had come from the LA field office stating that Smackdown claimed to know the current whereabouts of Lindsay and the kids.
 
Said he had a source at the scene, but was keeping the details under lock and key until he was good and ready.
 
Said he might auction her off to the highest bidder.

Kline sighed.
 
There was a tightness in his chest.
 
He craved a cigarette.
 
If Smackdown’s source really existed, and the insider info was accurate, it could mean serious trouble.
 
Kline was going to have to get Smackdown on the phone and threaten him with big fat legal jargon like obstruction of justice, and aiding and abetting.
 
But Smackdown would treat him like a toy.
 
Turn Kline into a sideshow freak, just another part of his comic routine.
 
But Smackdown would simply scream freedom of speech, freedom of the press, and rant and rave about the First Amendment.
 
The usual dog and pony show.

Kline decided to focus on Plan B.
 
If the walls closed in and the sky crashed down and Lindsay’s cover was blown, how could he protect her for the next seventy-two hours?
 
If Dunbar was successful in luring out the
entire criminal world
Kline didn’t have the manpower to hold back the ocean.
 
And he couldn’t afford to patiently sit back and wait to discover whether or not Smackdown was bluffing.
 
He needed to put a plan in motion within the hour.
 
Lindsay and the kids would have to go underground and disappear for three days.
 
He needed someone who could make them invisible.
 
Someone with skills.
 
A master of guerrilla warfare.
 

The first name that came to mind was really the only name on the list.
 
The one person guaranteed to keep Lindsay alive.
 
Ryan Archer.
 
But there was bad blood between Kline and Archer, and that might be a problem.
 
Kline had to take the chance and bring back his old friend.
 
If he could find him.
 
The latest rumor had him living in a tiny apartment above a surf shop in Santa Cruz.
 
If he could track down Archer in the next sixty minutes, Plan B might just work.
 
Plan C was simply not an option.
 
It was Archer or nothing.

CHAPTER 21

Archer had built a fire using driftwood from the beach.
 
He had gathered the wood into a pile, arranging it in a shallow pit he’d dug in the sand.
 
He lay on his sleeping bag with one knee up and his upper body propped on an elbow.
 
The wood was dry and burned hot.
 
His gray safari shirt was open, ruffled by a breeze off the water, orange light from the dancing flames swirling across the sharp angles of his face.
 
His Beretta 9mm was tucked inside the fold of his sleeping bag.
 
The gun had shed blood and taken lives on multiple continents for multiple reasons.
 

The breeze shifted direction and Archer squinted against the smoke.
 
The tide licked at the beach, then receded, leaving a dark stripe on the sand.
 
His eyes scoped his surroundings, monitoring the perimeter.
 
Old, ingrained instincts.
 
He was alone.

Archer heard the helicopter long before he saw it.
 
Heard the rotors beating the warm evening air.
 
Judged that it was sliding up the coastline in his general direction.
 
His hand glided beneath the fold of the sleeping bag and grabbed the Beretta.
 

Then he saw the lights, the chopper sweeping in low, looking for something or someone.
 

Archer took up position against a boulder protruding from the sand.
 
The chopper was on a direct path to his campsite, the rotor a gray blur against the night sky.
 
The searchlight drifted upon his campfire and froze.

The bird was a McDonnell Douglas, hovering at an altitude of about thirty feet, and was close enough for Archer to see the FBI markings painted on the side.
 
He held the Beretta against his lower back.

The chopper settled onto the beach, rotor wash fanning the flames wildly.
 
Archer shielded his eyes with a raised hand.
 
He fleetingly reflected on the peace and beauty of an evening now shattered.
 
He watched a door open opposite the pilot and Archer immediately recognized Special Agent Kline and turned away.
 
He reengaged the safety on the Beretta and headed up the beach toward the Land Cruiser.
 
He was securing the surfboard when Kline came up alongside him.

The rotors of the chopper were slowly whining to a stop.

“You’re not an easy man to find on short notice,” Kline said.

“Looks like you managed well enough,” Archer said without turning to face him.

“We’ve got a big problem, Ryan.”

“Hmm.
 
I haven’t had a problem in almost exactly five years.”
 
Archer found his towel and began dusting sand off his legs.

Kline’s tie hung askew down the front of his shirt.
 
He shrugged and nodded.
 
“I’ll clarify.
 
I have a problem.
 
The FBI has a problem.”

“Then let the FBI deal with its problem and get off my beach.”

Kline glanced back toward the chopper.
 
“This is public land, Archer.
 
I have every right to stand right here and say anything I damn well please.”

Archer zipped his duffel bag and pitched it onto the passenger seat of the Land Cruiser.
 
He turned, and for the first time acknowledged the presence of the FBI agent.

“Fair enough,” he said.
 
“Stand right there and say whatever you like.
 
I’m leaving.”
 
Archer climbed in behind the wheel and turned his key in the ignition.

Kline shook his head.
 

“All I’m asking for is sixty seconds.
 
I need your help.
 
I want to hire you.”

Archer shut the engine.
 
Offered him a cold stare.

“That’s ironic coming from the man who fired me.”

Kline stared down at his own shoes.
 
His short hair was barely disturbed by the fading wash from the rotors.
 
Dealing with Archer had never been a walk in the park.
 
Kline pursed his lips, glanced away.
 
He faced briefly up past the beach toward the highway beyond the tall weeds and the bluff, then his eyes flicked back to Archer.

“I’m not here to argue the past.
 
A critical situation has arisen.
 
Time Sensitive.
 
I’m here to recruit you.”

The cold stare remained.

“Not interested,” Archer said.

“A five hundred million dollar bounty has been place on the head of a woman in Brentwood.
 
I have to keep her alive until midnight Sunday.
 
It looks like things might get nasty before it’s all over.”

Archer shrugged.
 
“Put a hundred agents on her.
 
Stick her in a safe house.”

“I don’t have the men.
 
And this could get ugly.
 
What I need is for you to take her and her family off the grid and disappear for three days.”

“Why three days?”

“The bounty will expire at midnight Sunday.
 
The man putting up the money is scheduled for execution at San Quentin.
 
The second his pulse flatlines, the money comes off the table.”

“Five hundred million?”

Kline nodded.

“Do we know who he hired for the hit?”

Kline cleared his throat.
 
“He’s opened it to the public.
 
Anyone with the skills and the means and the desire to get the job done.”

Archer took his eyes off Kline.
 
Turned his head and stared out through the dirty windshield toward the dunes, lost in thought for a few beats.

“Five hundred million is significant motivation,” he said.

Kline nodded.

Archer said, “Who is the woman?”

“Lindsay Hammond.
 
The psycho with the money happens to be her former brother-in-law, name of Dunbar.
 
Long story.”

“Where is she now?”

“Hiding.
 
Somebody posted her address on the Internet.
 
There has already been one attempt made on her life.
 
Both of her two children are with her.
 
She’s divorced, so there’s no protective husband in the picture.
 
She escaped the attack by the skin of her teeth and has been unaccounted for since then.”

“When was that?”

“A few hours ago.”

“How long has the situation been hot?”

“Happened late this afternoon.
 
In this age of cell phone cameras his speech got uploaded in a matter of seconds.
 
There wasn’t much anyone could do to stop it.”

Archer looked him hard in the eyes, unable to fully disguise his stunned disbelief.
 
A hint of a grin passed across his unshaven face.

“You put this guy in front of an audience?”

Kline blinked.
 
Glanced briefly down at his shoes again.
 
“That’s correct.”

Archer almost smiled.

“It’s complicated,” Kline said.
 
“It was part of a fragile negotiation between a death row inmate and the FBI.
 
We took a calculated risk.”

“And it blew up in your face.”

Archer had both hands on the steering wheel.
 
He lifted an index finger, gesturing toward the McDonnell Douglas chopper perched upon his favorite stretch of California coastline.

“My interpretation is that you’re scrambling to cover your ass.
 
A plan of action which apparently includes you dropping in here to persuade me to salvage a situation that you and your bureaucratic brethren seem to be doing a piss-poor job of holding together.
 
You’re willing to throw me to the wolves because I’m expendable.
 
The federal government won’t have to fork over the dough for a state-funded funeral for me.
 
And if I fail to keep the woman alive, I’m to blame, not the Feds.”

Kline swallowed.
 
“What is your price?”

Archer’s eyes smiled.
 

Kline hesitated a beat.
 
“How much?”