Cut Out (30 page)

“Come on, assholes,” he muttered, as the phone rang and rang. He’d been out of contact with the team for an hour and a half now, ever since ordering them in. They should have called in an initial entry report right after landing, but there had been nothing. The ringer on the phone could be turned off—and usually was in situations such as this—but the phone put out a noticeable vibration when a call was incoming. Additionally, a small light could be activated to signal a call. His team should be answering.

Master had considered going to the Bald in the helicopter—it would have been the quickest way—but he had vetoed the idea. The pilot had already seen enough. Master didn’t want him in on whatever was happening on the Bald.

Master pointed to the left of the trail, and two men moved out there, twenty feet to the flank. A gesture to the right, and that side was covered. Master and the four remaining men took the center path. It was slow moving through the thickly wooded terrain, but Master had long ago learned the value of doing things the right way. When live ammunition was involved, you didn’t get a second chance.

The nine men dipped down through the saddle formed by Andrews Bald and Clingmans Dome, then moved two hundred feet up the slope of Andrews Bald itself. The terrain was wooded until they got to the southwestern slope, and Master halted his men fifty feet short of the open area. He moved his flanks forward to provide security, then slowly walked forward himself, carefully scanning every tree and bush. He halted at the tree line and peered out into the open area.

The three lumps of flesh that had been his men lay not far ahead. Master studied the way the bodies were sprawled, what little he could see of their wounds, and the blackened arc of cut grass, and he knew immediately what had happened. Still he didn’t move. He ordered his flank security teams to move around the wood line, clearing it. Finally, when that was done, he moved forward.

He stared down at the three bodies while one of his men checked their wounds. “Claymore, sir.”

“I know that,” Master snapped.

“Each was finished off with a round through the forehead.”

Master’s estimation of his opponent went up again. Obviously Riley could do what had to be done.

“Police them up,” he ordered. “We’re going to have to haul them out.”

His men looked none too pleased, but no one protested. They broke out ponchos from their butt packs and began putting together makeshift stretchers to carry out their dead.

A vibration on Master’s chest informed him that his phone was ringing. He pulled it out and flipped it open.

“Master here.”

He listened to the voice on the other end without comment, then hung up. His voice was ice cold as he turned to his men. “Dewar, Kramer, you come with me. The rest of you get the bodies back up the trail to the van.”

Without explanation, Master turned and led the way back toward Clingmans Dome.

1:30 p.m.

Riley’s report on the ambush had been succinct, and Lisa and Giannini were lost in their own thoughts. He’d left Hammer down by the trail leading up from the parking lot to pull security. He had a feeling things were going to get hairy real soon.

Giannini concurred with Hammer’s assessment of the men’s identity. “They weren’t ATF, Dave—not without IDs and not acting the way they were.”

“I’m past the point of worrying about who these people are,” Riley said. “Somehow, some way, they followed us. If we couldn’t shake them by coming here, I don’t know what to do.”

“If Hammer hadn’t wasted that wounded man, we might have some answers,” Giannini noted.

“He was still armed,” Riley told her. “I gave them a chance to surrender, and I showed them that they had just stepped into some deep shit by blowing the first claymore. You can’t give a fellow much more warning than that.”

“Let’s just go to the police,” Lisa said. “We ...” She paused as Hammer stepped into the campsite and walked up to her.

“What are you—” Riley began and then halted in surprise as Hammer lifted his .44 magnum, pressed it against Lisa’s forehead, and cocked the hammer. In his left hand, he held a claymore clacker, the handle already pressed down.

Chapter Twenty

GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS

1 NOVEMBER, 1:32 p.m.

“Don’t do nothing foolish now,” Hammer warned. “Put your weapons on the ground, slowly, and do it with your off hand—which in your case, Riley, means your right—or we get a close look at the lady’s brains.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Riley asked, his hands carefully away from his sides.

Hammer dug the barrel of the gun into Lisa’s skin, causing her to cry out. “Do as I say.”

“Bullshit,” Riley replied. He drew his 9mm and pointed it at Hammer, who edged slightly sideways, placing Lisa between them. Giannini followed Riley’s lead, the two of them aiming at the man from a distance of twenty feet.

“Not bullshit,” Hammer said calmly. He lifted his left hand, which held the clacker. “I’ve got the last mine you brought aimed right at this clearing from the tree line. As you can see, I rewired the clacker, I let go of it, and we’re all Swiss cheese.” He smiled grimly. “I know how you were trained—never surrender your weapon in a standoff, and always take down the bad guy. But in this case, you take me down, you take all of us down.”

Riley kept the bead directly centered on the part of Hammer’s head that he could see. He tried to gain some time. “Why are you doing this?”

“That’s not important right now,” Hammer said, his voice cold. “What is important is you put down your weapon in the next ten seconds, or I blow her fucking brains out.”

Riley glanced at Giannini, who shook her head helplessly. Slowly, she put down her revolver at her feet. Riley looked at the clacker and traced the wire to where it disappeared into a bush. He returned his gaze to Hammer and looked into his eyes for almost five seconds. Hammer’s finger tightened on the trigger.

“All right, all right,” Riley said. He put down his 9mm at his feet.

“The silenced twenty-two in the other shoulder holster,” Hammer said.

Riley complied.

“The boot knife and the one in the small of your back and your combat vest.”

The arsenal at Riley’s feet grew.

“Step away—this way—a few more feet.” Hammer guided Giannini and Riley away from their weapons. “All right. Hold it. Now facedown on the ground, hands behind your back.”

Riley and Giannini did as they were told. Hammer released Lisa, the imprint of the gun barrel bright red against her temple. “In the middle pocket on the outside of my backpack you’ll find some electrical tape,” he instructed her. When she had the black roll in her hand, he told her to tape Riley and Giannini’s hands behind their backs. She did Riley first, and Hammer counted each loop out loud, ensuring that Riley’s wrists had at least ten wraps. Lisa then did the same with Giannini.

When Lisa was done, Hammer took the tape from her and wrapped the clacker handle shut, then taped Lisa’s hands behind her back.

Riley twisted himself into a sitting position. “You mind telling me why you’re doing this?”

“Oldest reason there is,” Hammer answered. “Money.”

“I told you I don’t know anything about any money,” Lisa protested.

Hammer laughed. “Well, first off, little lady, I don’t believe you. But second, even if you don’t, I’ll still make something off this mess.”

“What do you mean?” Riley asked.

“Enough questions,” Hammer said as he gathered all the weapons and stuffed them into his backpack, along with Riley’s combat vest. “Everyone on your feet. We got a little trip to make.” He waited until everyone was standing, then gestured with the muzzle of the FA-MAS. “We’re going down to the trail, then to the observation tower. Now, if you want to be stupid you can try running for it, but I don’t think you’ll outrun the muzzle velocity of my rifle. So let’s not be stupid, okay?”

CHEROKEE 1:40 p.m.

Jim Ferguson paused in mid-bite as a silver Mercedes pulled into the lot fronting his office. A man wearing an expensive leather jacket got out and came inside. “How much for an hour over the mountains?” he asked, looking over the display map.

Ferguson glanced at the car, the man’s Rolex, then at the safe where he had put the money from this morning, and said a short prayer of thanks. Today was most certainly turning out to be his day.

“Five hundred.”

The man smiled and peeled off five crisp one hundred dollar bills. “My wife and I spent our honeymoon down here thirty years ago,” he said as Ferguson took the money. He pointed at the map. “Fly us up along the high part of the mountains, all right?”

Ferguson nodded and grabbed his kit bag. “We’ll be ready to take off in five minutes.”

GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS

1:45 p.m.

The trip to the Clingmans Dome observation tower had been made in abject silence, everyone lost in their own thoughts and fears. Riley was so confused with the whole situation that he’d made the decision to simply focus on the most immediate problem—getting out of the present predicament. Hammer had directed them up the long winding ramp to the tower, and now the three of them were seated with their backs against the three-foot-high concrete wall that made up the outside of the tower.

The concrete walkway came into the twenty-foot-wide tower from the west. In the center of the platform, a six-foot-wide column extended upward, holding a mushroom-shaped concrete roof that covered most of the platform, leaving only the outside three feet exposed. Hammer was standing, peering down the trail that came up from the parking lot. He’d piled Riley’s combat vest and the weapons on the far side of the center column from the prisoners.

Riley probed underneath his belt with his fingers and slowly began working free the garrote he had there. Giannini, sitting next to him, could tell he was up to something, and she started talking, trying to distract Hammer.

“You said you were going to make some money whether or not Lisa knows where her husband’s money is hidden. What did you mean by that?”

Hammer seemed to be considering whether he should answer, then apparently decided he had nothing to lose. “You people are pretty naive, you know that?” He gestured at Riley, who halted his movements momentarily. “What are you, some kind of knight in shining armor, coming to the aid of the damsel in distress? Who the hell do you think has been after her all this time? Who do you think wasted her husband?”

“It was the mob, wasn’t it?” Giannini asked, confused. Riley slipped a finger under the ring on one end of the garrote and popped it free. Hammer’s words echoed in his head, and for the first time he knew the answer to Hammer’s questions. He wanted to kick himself for not realizing it sooner. It all clicked into place: the high-power equipment, the phone lines tapped, the message on the marshal’s computer in Chicago. All the “what” pieces now fit. The only thing he didn’t understand was the all-important “why.”

Hammer pulled a portable phone out of his fatigue pants pocket and gestured downhill with it. “The mob!” Hammer laughed. “They only got in the way of these guys, and when they did, they were eliminated.”

“The two men at my house,” Riley said, doubling up the wire of the garrote, the rough edges cutting his fingers as he bent it.

“Yeah—the first two, they were mob. The others—they weren’t.”

“You told them we were up here?” Riley asked, holding his body still and using his fingers to create a sawing motion at his wrists.

“I didn’t have to,” Hammer said. “She did—using one of these,” he added, waving the portable at Giannini. “I just used this one to check in, and our friends are on their way here as we speak.”

“How’d you know what number to call?” Riley asked.

“Redial,” Hammer answered, thumb over one of the buttons. “I figured those guys we wasted had to be talking to one of their buddies.”

“Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” Giannini exploded, frustrated with the conversation flitting above her head. “If it wasn’t the mob, who the hell was it? Who are these ‘others’?”

“I just want to know how you’re affiliated with these people,” Riley asked, ignoring Giannini for the moment, trying to buy time and also get what could be important information.

“I’m not,” Hammer said. “I work for myself. Whoever pays the most gets my services. Right now we’re in a curious position. I’m not sure who should get that honor.

“The fellow who’s coming up the hill,” Hammer said, “we call him Master. He’s a freelancer. Does shit jobs for anyone with the dough to pay—DEA, DIA, CIA, any of the alphabet soup. I knew him from my time in CCN-North, and we’ve kept in touch over the years. It’s not too bad.” Hammer smiled. “Only have to work a couple of months out of the year, doing what I was trained to do, and then coming on active duty for a few weeks every year to get brought up to speed on the latest special ops stuff.” He looked at Riley. “If you’d been a little smarter, I might have let you in on it.”