PRECIPICE (34 page)

When the girl opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat, Chucho casually opened the passenger door and hopped in beside her, tossing his gym bag over into the back. Her momentary protest at his unexpected intrusion was cut off as she looked down the cavernous barrel of the shiny .357 leveled at her head and saw the tattoo of the topless Mexican woman winking suggestively at her from the man’s brawny bicep. He could see the primal fear and dread spread across her features as she realized her fate, and the sight caused his face to break into an involuntary leer of cruel delight. He instructed her to drive, and they pulled slowly across the parking lot and onto the ramp for I-81 North as the girl tried to focus on the road through a rush of tears.

22

Monday, November 28th

CHIP COULD FEEL the stitches in his leg wound tugging as he climbed the third flight of stairs. The cut was starting to itch, and he resisted the urge to scratch at it through his pants. He reached the top landing and turned left, continuing to the end of the hall and through the plain wood and smoked-glass door. The receptionist greeted him cheerily and directed him toward a door he’d never been through.

Chip entered and found the still somewhat mysterious Mr. Sutherland seated at a battered old desk. His hawk eyes looked up expectantly as the younger man walked in. He wore the same gray suit he always did, and his features were pinched behind the round glasses perched on his aquiline nose. He took off his glasses and placed them on the desk then stood with a squeal of protest from the springs of his chair and reached across to shake Chip’s hand. He indicated another decrepit office chair, and they both took a seat.

“How are you feeling?” the older man asked.

“I’m OK.” Chip’s tone was emotionless.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Sutherland carried on as if everything was fine. “You’ll be happy to know that our friend Harris is recovering well. He’ll have to stay in the hospital on antibiotics for a while longer, but they tell me that he’ll keep the leg and make a full recovery.”

Chip nodded his approval at the bit of good news, but even this couldn’t bring a smile. There had simply been too much bad news lately for him to put it all behind him.

Sutherland indicated a large, fully-stuffed legal-size brown envelope sitting near the computer monitor on his Spartan desk. “I have a few things for you here.”

Chip leaned forward and collected the envelope and opened it to see what was inside. He found a passport and a West Virginia driver’s license with his picture on them, both in the name of Eric West. He stuffed them into the hip pocket of his pants. Samantha had told his real name to Senator Moore over the phone from Mexico, so they assumed it wasn’t safe for him to use it any more. It was a part of his life that he’d be forced to leave behind, at least for now.

Inside the envelope he also found a printed photograph and a slip of paper with handwritten information on it. The paper listed the name and phone number of a bank in the Bahamas along with the number to his new account, into which Sutherland had anonymously deposited fifty grand. Attached to the slip of paper with a paperclip was a debit card that accessed the account issued under his new name. The photograph he found in the envelope was a picture of a Hispanic man in a suit. The DC mobile phone number from the caller history of the satellite phone was written on the other side. A name and address were written next to it, as well as a license plate number and the model and color of a car. He looked up inquiringly at the older gentleman.

“Juan Ortiz is Senator Moore’s chief of staff,” Southerland explained. “There were two DC numbers in the call logs, but the other one appears to be a pre-paid phone. This one was only called one time, but I think the owner has some significance here.”

Chip nodded and looked back into the envelope to examine the other four items. Still inside were a new international smart phone, the satellite phone they had recovered from Mexico, a Sig Sauer P229 pistol like the one he’d used on the mission, and a silencer made to fit. He folded the flap shut on the brown envelope and looked up to meet Sutherland’s eyes.

“It’s up to you how you want to handle it,” the older man went on. “Harris can take care of things once he recovers, but I believe you’ve earned the right.” Harris had been lavish in his praise of the young man and had encouraged Sutherland to give him an opportunity to work. In light of the fact that Chip had completed the mission and killed Cardenas when the team had failed, then extracted himself from the jungle and gotten to the desert building where he had finally killed the remaining leader of the cartel, Sutherland was inclined to agree. It would be a shame to lose someone so effective.

Chip sat for another moment, lost in thought.

“Use the mobile phone to contact me if you need anything,” Sutherland said. “It’s encrypted, and there’s a number for me stored in the contacts that you can call. I keep it on me at all times. Do you mind if I ask what your plans are?”

“I’ll handle it,” Chip said quietly. It was the least he could do, although he doubted it would help assuage his guilt or dull his pain.

“Perhaps when this is over, you’ll be open to us giving
you
a call from time to time?”

“Yeah,” Chip said softly as he nodded, and he knew he’d crossed over a line. In his youthful imaginings, he’d dreamed of how cool it would be to have the life of a secret agent. The reality was surprisingly empty in comparison.

“Be discreet,” Sutherland warned. “There’s only so much we can do to bail you out.”

“I’ll be careful,” Chip reassured him, then he stood.

Sutherland reached out and shook the young man’s hand. “Good luck.”

Chip silently met the older man’s eyes as they shook hands, then he turned to leave.

“Oh, and Eric?” Sutherland called after him, trying out Chip’s new name. “Anybody can shoot a man. The elegance of it lies in learning not to use the bullets at all—especially with targets like this. Don’t make a mess unless you have to.”

Chip met his eyes again and slowly nodded before continuing out the door. It was food for thought.

Back on the street, Chip climbed into his old Tacoma and started it up, listening to the familiar grumble of the exhaust leak as the four cylinder engine puttered to life. It seemed so normal to be driving his own truck, which was essentially his home, after the events of the last month. He’d spent two nights over the weekend camping in the truck bed in the cold rain at the deserted rafting outpost, relishing the peace and quiet. Then he’d driven back to DC yesterday to wrap things up. He couldn’t leave things like this.

There was a part of him that wanted to get on a plane to South America and put the whole episode behind him, to immerse himself in his old life and forget the mission ever took place. But the more he thought about that, the more wrong it seemed. Although he still had some desire for retribution or revenge, that alone was not enough to make him risk his life yet again. What compelled him to stay and finish it was a new feeling that made running away seem like a childish notion. It was loyalty, or maybe
duty
that drove him now. Duty to a team that had accepted an outsider as one of their own. Duty to a girl who had relied on him for rescue and hope for her future. Duty to an organization for which he had agreed to do a job that he still didn’t fully understand. All he knew was that he was compelled to finish it, and finish it he would.

Chip pulled his new smartphone from the envelope and turned it on, then launched the maps application. He entered his destination and followed the device’s directions onto the Leesburg Pike. Twenty minutes later he swung onto the Capitol Beltway heading north, crossed the Potomac River into Maryland, then took the next exit onto Clara Barton Parkway. He paralleled the river heading upstream as the road merged into MacArthur Boulevard, then he followed a bend to the right in front of the Old Angler’s Inn. A few minutes later he was parked in the large lot for the Great Falls Visitor Center. He locked the truck and followed a wide path along the canal, then took a smaller trail that led to a boardwalk over the man-made fishladder channel of the river and into the woods on Olmsted Island. He was soon looking over the wide Potomac River from a viewing platform.

The water was raging, and Chip spent a few minutes lost in his own thoughts, soothed by the roaring flow. Many people didn’t know that one of the most intense pieces of whitewater in the eastern U.S runs right through Washington, DC. The enormous Potomac River drains large portions of West Virginia, Virginia, and Maryland before tumbling over one last cataract then flowing past the Lincoln Memorial at the end of the Capitol Mall and dumping into Chesapeake Bay. In front of Chip was a gushing series of dramatic falls dropping a total of sixty-five feet. He had kayaked them before, but always at a lower flow than the river held today. Chip knew that tackling the falls at this flow would mean certain death; but he’d come here to clear his mind and think, not to kayak. He suddenly realized that certain death was just what he was looking for.

Chip retraced his steps to the Tacoma and climbed in. He opened the maps application on his new phone again and highlighted another destination on the other side of the river. He followed the phone’s directions as he backtracked to the Beltway and across the Potomac to the Virginia side. He took the first exit and headed north on Georgetown Pike, then a little later found his turn onto Old Dominion Road. It took him a half hour, but he finally parked and walked through a strip of woods and viewed the falls from the other side of the river. There was no boardwalk here, only a short distance through the trees from the parking lot to the craggy rocks at the water’s edge. This would work.

Chip walked the hundred and fifty yards back to his truck. He quickly assembled his kayaking gear and crammed it into his kayak. Then he shouldered the kayak full of gear and headed back into the woods. He worked his way downstream along the craggy rocks at the edge of the river until he was just below the falls. He made his way down the treacherous rocks and found a crevice where his kayak and equipment could be hidden out of view. He stashed the boat, double-checked that it wasn’t visible from the trail above, and headed back to his truck. He started up the Toyota, drove back around to the other side of the river, and parked his truck in the lot between the road and the river across from the Old Angler’s Inn. Then he called a cab to take him to Dulles.

*

Moore couldn’t get from the capitol to his office fast enough. He was more anxious than he’d ever been. He lumbered across Delaware and then Constitution Avenue, wiping sweat from his brow as he went. After a few cool days in early fall, the last week had been unbearably hot for November. There were tourists walking down the street in shorts, but Sheldon was confined to a suit, as usual. Once his Senate term was over, he’d never wear one again. His vote for the international trucking bill today all but guaranteed that he would not be re-elected. What choice did he have? He didn’t know whether to be dismayed or relieved. All he wanted was his daughter back, and if this was what it took, so be it.

He rumbled up the marble stairs and into the Russell Senate Office Building, then bee-lined for his suite on the third floor. The place was frantic when he walked in. There were a few bloodthirsty reporters milling about looking for the inside scoop, and none of his staffers would meet his gaze. The sons-of-bitches were probably all trying to figure out where they were going to get their next jobs, Sheldon thought with a sardonic grimace. To hell with all of them—he had bigger problems. He ignored Candace’s usual squeaky greeting as he shoved open the door to his office and then slammed it behind him with some relief before the startled reporters could catch up. It was 4:30 in the afternoon, so hopefully his staff would go home before he left the office. They were obsessed with the political repercussions of what he’d done, but dealing with that would have to wait. What mattered most now was getting Sam back.

With one hand he dialed Ortiz’s number for the third time from the contacts on his new Samsung as his other hand poured three fingers of Basil Hayden’s into a glass with no ice. He was frustrated to hear his chief of staff’s outgoing voicemail message drone in his ear again. Ortiz had been here to support him all morning, acting like his best friend. Now that the vote was over, his betrayer was nowhere to be found. He disconnected the call without leaving a message and raised the glass of amber liquor for a long drink. If that scoundrel Ortiz had crossed him again there would be hell to pay. He sat down heavily in his enormous office chair to wait, worried sick about his daughter.

Ortiz checked the caller ID on his Blackberry and was annoyed to see that it was Senator Moore calling for the third time. He ignored the ringing and let the call go to voicemail. He wished the man would stop calling. It had been a week since he’d talked to his cousin and three days since he had received the last text, and he was really worried. The vote had gone through—he had done his job. Although Ortiz still held out some small hope that the rest of the money would be transferred and he could increase his payday, he knew that the senator was now certain to want his daughter back immediately. If Ortiz’s fears were realized and something had happened to Héctor or the girl, he needed to cover his ass before the senator found out that his daughter was gone and that his money was not forthcoming. In the back of his mind, Ortiz finally admitted to himself that there was no way he could pursue his dream of going into politics on his own now. It was time to run.

As soon as his Blackberry stopped ringing, he used his pre-paid disposable phone to call his cousin’s satellite number again. He was frustrated to hear the outgoing voicemail message for what seemed like the millionth time—a generic computer voice in Spanish that simply listed the phone number he had dialed. He hung up in frustration. He was out of time. He had to make the next call before the banks closed.