MIND FIELDS (36 page)

  JT Anderson had run out of the garage, hoping to see Hingston’s car stopped at the gate.  A black sedan, waiting at the main entrance to the building lurched forward and accelerated toward Anderson and Finch.  JT jumped back as the car squealed to a halt next to him.

  “Was that him?”  the driver yelled out.

  Anderson didn’t recognize the man, but his demeanor had federal agent written all over it.  Obviously, Sean had called O’Grady after he called Anderson.  This had to be O’Grady’s man.

  JT nodded to the driver. “But I’ve got the...”

  The car sped off after Paul Hingston’s dented Jaguar before JT Anderson could finish the sentence.  JT figured Hingston was harmless without the proof that was on the disc, now safely inside of Anderson’s pocket computer, but the NSA wouldn’t want any loose cannons.  Hingston knew too much, and was obviously playing for the other team.

  Paul Hingston knew these roads better than anyone.  When Kincade had first convinced him that he was in over his head at BNI, Paul pulled out a map and went over possible escape routes, roads that he had driven dozens of times over the years.  One route in particular had the most promise.  Over the past few weeks, he had driven it several times; he had every twist and turn memorized, and one of the fastest road cars on the planet to negotiate it with.

  Paul sped away from BNI into the Maryland countryside, looking back in his mirror frequently.  He spotted the black sedan in the distance and figured he had about a half mile on it.  Paul drove the winding country road with as much speed as he could handle, but the sedan was gradually closing the distance; the NSA agent was not new to this sort of thing and it was easier to negotiate a new route when one had a pace car to follow. 

  The Jag made a sharp left, then about a quarter of a mile up the road, turned back to the right, heading up an unpaved switchback on the hillside.  Paul slowed as he passed a familiar section of the road, a small clearing on the left used as a parking area for day hikers.  On the right, there was a sharp drop-off leading to a creek fifty yards below.  He stopped just past the passage, where a trail led off the road into the woods, and carefully backed the Jag down into the trail.  He had staked out the terrain just two days earlier and knew that the ground was solid enough to ride on.  Maneuvering the car about fifty yards into the trail, Paul angled in behind some low-lying tree branches to provide camouflage, then turned off the engine and waited.

  The driver of the black sedan negotiated the hilly terrain cautiously, no longer able to see the Jag he was chasing.  He drove slowly by the spot where Paul had turned off, then stopped.  As Paul held his breath, hoping the deception had worked, the sedan slowly backed down the road and stopped at the end of the trail.  Paul could feel his heart pounding in his chest.  He strained to see the driver through the branches.  The man was rather large, and from this distance, Paul could swear that he had no neck. The man peered out the window, using one of his massive hands as a shield against the sun, straining to focus his vision down into the shaded trail.

  Paul felt like a fawn being hunted by a tiger.  The sweat made his hands slip ever so slightly along the steering wheel, which he was unwittingly grasping like a vice. He tried to wipe them dry on his jacket as he kept vigil, hoping the man with no neck would not spot him, and move on.  He felt helpless, backed into the woods in a parked car.

  The man in the black sedan pulled his hand back into the car.  A moment later, it emerged back through the window.  A glint of sunlight reflected off the barrel of the gun in his hand, as No-neck turned to point it down the trail.

Paul’s mind began to race.  It was foolish just to sit there; he would be no match for No-neck.  Should he get out of the car and run through the woods, or start the engine and race against the gun?  Neither idea was particularly appealing.

The NSA agent struggled to focus, squinting into the sunlight.  He tried to get his left arm up out of the window to use as a sun visor, while he brandished the gun with his right.  He couldn’t quite twist his large body enough to accomplish the task, and reached down to unfasten his seatbelt, trying to give himself more slack.

Paul saw No-neck pull the gun back.  Quickly, he reached down and turned the key in the ignition.  The engine of the Jag roared to life.  No-neck looked up, startled.  Paul shoved the gearshift into drive and jammed the pedal to the floor. The Jag lunged out of the woods like a tiger pouncing on its prey.  No-neck raised his pistol in the direction of the oncoming car and fired off one round, piercing the windshield and narrowly missing Paul, who flinched ever so slightly, keeping focused on his quarry.  The hunted had become the hunter.  Before the man with no neck could get off a second shot, the green sportster slammed into the sedan at full speed.  Paul could see the driver’s face, a trained assassin, never turning from his target.  No-neck lurched toward him as the speeding Jag rammed the sedan. The pistol flew into the air and bounced off the roof of Paul’s car.

Paul was stunned by the impact as his head ricocheted off the air bag, but kept his foot pressed to the accelerator, tires burning as the Jag struggled forward, forcing the sedan across the narrow dirt road toward the precarious drop-off to the creek below. No-neck pulled himself back into his seat and hit the gas, trying desperately to regain control of his car, just as it began to slip off the road.  The rear wheels spun aimlessly as the black sedan rolled down the hillside, plunging into the rocky creek.

Paul hit the brakes and pawed helplessly at the airbag, trying to clear his view.  Groping with his right hand, he managed to open the center console and retrieve a small pocketknife.  He flipped it open and tore into the side of the airbag; the gas hissed out as it shriveled into his lap.

  Through the partially shattered windshield, there was nothing to see except for the sky and the trees in the distance.  He was unaware that his car was precariously balanced over the precipice at the edge of the road.  Momentarily disoriented, he looked around for a point of reference.  Glancing over his left shoulder out the driver’s side window, he could see the creek flowing in the distance beneath him, and the black sedan resting on the boulders of the riverbed. His mind began to race again, pulling him back into the life or death confrontation he had just escaped.  His gaze fixed on the mangled car, looking for any motion, unsure if the relentless agent was really finished hunting him.

As time passed and the sedan lay motionless amongst the rocks, Paul began to let his guard down and he became aware of his predicament.  He held his breath, realizing that his car’s front end was protruding off the edge of the road, and that any shift in the center of gravity might send him toward the same fate as the man with no neck.  He slipped the car into reverse and slowly gave it some gas.  Nothing.  The wheels were spinning in mid-air.  At that moment, Paul was thankful that the Jaguar salesman had talked him into forking over the extra two grand for the four-wheel drive option.  He pressed the button on the side of the gearshift lever.

  “Four-wheel drive engaged,” the car’s computer announced pleasantly.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” Paul said.  He pressed the pedal again and the Jag’s rear wheels began to pull it back onto the road.  A few minutes later, Paul was driving home, thankful to be alive.

___

  Agent John Mason was awakened to the trickle of cold water across his face.  The lullaby of the creek meandering past his car was calming, yet disorienting.  Still dazed, it took a few minutes for him to focus on his surroundings.  The black sedan was lying sideways at a forty-five degree angle in the shallow river, the water just barely deep enough to find its way in through the shattered driver’s side window.

  Mason tried to open the door, but even the powerful body of the man with no neck was no match for the gnarled steel doorframe.  Struggling against the newly deformed car, he tried in vain to free himself from the seat that wedged him against the steering column.  Lightheaded from the exertion, he slumped back into the seat.  Mason was not used to failing at physical contests; he let out a roar of frustration and grabbed for the phone in his pocket.

  “Yeah?” the voice on the other end answered.

  “It’s Mase.  The son of a bitch blindsided me.”

  “He got away?” O’Grady said incredulously.

  “He got away.”

  “Where in the hell is he?”

  “Well, he ditched me at the bottom of a hill, knee deep in a river.  Last I saw, he was heading north on State Road 437.  It’s a little dirt road off of Scarborough Boulevard about five miles from BNI.  His Jag’s got to be pretty banged up.  Shouldn’t be too hard to spot.”

  “Right.  I’ll get somebody on it.”

  “And I could use a hand here.”  He glanced down at the water trickling into the car.  The level had risen about two inches since he had awakened.  “Is my GPS beacon still working?”

  “Hang on.”  O’Grady turned to his computer monitor and pulled up the GPS system. He scanned down a list and clicked on John Mason.  A blip registered on the screen.  “Yeah, I’ve got you, Mase.  I’ll have somebody there as quick as I can.”

  “Sooner would be better than later.”

  “Hang tough,” O’Grady said.  He felt foolish as soon as the words left his lips.  They didn’t come any tougher than John Mason, and Jimmy O’Grady knew it.

___

  Paul’s nerves were frayed.  He could still feel his hands trembling as he grasped the wheel.  He rolled up to an abandoned farmhouse about five miles up the road from where he had rammed John “No-neck” Mason into the river.  The Jag wobbled in along a dirt road into the dilapidated barn.  Steam was hissing from the hood as he rolled to a stop next to a white Ford Taurus.

  The keys to the Taurus were tucked safely into Paul’s pants pocket.  He opened the trunk; his briefcase was still there.  After checking to make sure the Ford would start OK, Paul pulled out his cell phone and dialed Anderson’s number.

  JT was still at the office checking out the damage that had been wrought by Hingston’s getaway when his phone rang.

  “Excuse me,” he said to Harry Finch.  He pulled out the phone and walked away from the BNI security guard.

  “Hello?”

  “How the hell are you, JT?”

  Anderson recognized Hingston’s voice.  “What’re you sounding so smug about?  I’ve got the disc and all you’ve got are a bunch of very angry, very dangerous men on your ass.  I’d say you’re up the proverbial creek without a paddle.”

  “Yeah, well about that...you see, before I made a copy of those files, I e-mailed them to my computer...you can check that out if you want, and then I had my computer send those files to a couple of dozen other computers around the globe.  Hard copies of those files are being produced as we speak, and the discs will be tucked safely away.  If anything ever happens to me, those files will be released to the press.  There’s some pretty damaging stuff there, JT.  If I were you, I’d do everything I could to make sure that Paul Hingston lives to be a very old man, or at least that he outlives you.”

  “You son of a bitch.  After everything I’ve done for you.”

  “Everything you’ve done?  You’ve stolen my life, my career.  You’ve killed the love of my life.  You’ve made me an accomplice to a heinous crime against humanity.  Oh yeah, I’d say you’ve done plenty, JT, and believe me, I won’t forget it.”

  “So why don’t you just turn those files over now?  You want money, don’t you?  How much?”

  “Damned right.  I’m gonna need something to live off of.  Those bloodsuckers you work with will never stop coming after me.  You don’t really think they care about you, do you?  They could care less whether that disc can ruin BNI.”

  “Maybe not, but they don’t want to lose the nanobots, and they sure as hell don’t want the kind of publicity those files can generate.  They thrive on anonymity.  No, you’ve played a good game, Paul.  Looks like you hold all the cards.”

  “You don’t think I’m really stupid enough to stay on this line until you can trace me, do you?  Look, check your e-mail when I hang up.  There’s a Cayman bank account number there.  If you want those files of yours to stay buried, make sure that fifty million dollars shows up in that account by five PM.”

  “Fifty million!   Now look here, Paul...”  Anderson stopped as he heard the line go dead.  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

  Paul Hingston drove off in the white Taurus.  It took him twenty minutes to get to the Baltimore Washington International Airport.  The fake ID’s had been surprisingly easy to get, and he was on his way to London by midnight.

___

  Donny Austin was sleeping in the apartment over his studio in downtown Baltimore.  The Austin Photo Studio was a popular place for yuppies to bring their kids for the traditional annual birthday photos.  Donny had built quite a reputation as a children’s photographer and had many high profile clients, the kind that brought him the occasional invite to holiday parties of the rich and famous.  He had met Paul Hingston at one of these parties about a year ago.  Donny was quite charismatic, and took full advantage of these parties to market his business.  It was no big secret amongst this crowd that his photography skills were equally effective at producing high quality ID cards as they were at shooting pictures of toddlers.  Donny was the man to come to if you needed a new identity and had the money to pay for the very best.

  The reputation of Donny Austin was not unknown to James O’Grady.  In fact, Austin had done some fine work for him over the years.  Agent John Mason was only too happy to check out the lead from his boss.   Hingston had vanished after he left Mason for dead.  There was no trace of his Jag anywhere.  O’Grady figured that if Hingston was looking for a new identity, he’d find his way to Donny Austin.  Hingston had made Mason look like a fool, and this was one agent who wasn’t about to let a few broken ribs keep him from tracking that weasel down.