The Labyrinth Campaign (27 page)
“By the time he comes to and finds a phone or flags someone down,” Jack said, “we should be in Denver.”
As the men pulled out of the parking lot, another ATV, obscured by a hill, was pulling into the parking lot, headed straight toward the camper. The man and woman on the ATV didn’t notice the Ford F-150 leaving the parking lot. The two riders hadn’t gone very far when they decided it was still too cold to go off-roading and that their best bet was to return to the camper and keep each other warm until later in the morning. As the two, very enthralled with each other, neared the pop-up camper on the back of an older Dodge pickup, they simultaneously realized something was wrong.
With the small back window above the camper doorknob smashed, it was apparent their truck had been broken into. What they weren’t prepared for was the unconscious man lying on the pickup bed. When the young man cautiously opened the camper door, his girlfriend let out an involuntary scream that made him jump twelve inches in the air. “Jesus, Kelly, you scared the shit out of me,” he exclaimed.
“I couldn’t help it. Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so,” he replied as the man groaned and rolled to his side on the camper floor.
Without a word, the two ran to the front of the truck and hopped in the cab, fighting to get their hands on their cell phones. Within twenty minutes, the Colorado Highway Patrol had arrived at the deserted rest area.
T
wo of President Hughes’s most trusted men sat at the kitchen table of a small condominium just off Interstate 70 in Silverthorne. Both of them were drinking Diet Pepsis, staring at the police radio on the table in front of them. They had been monitoring the Colorado Highway Patrol frequency for the past ninety minutes, hoping to get a break on the search for Jack McCarthy and Kate Anson.
Both men were growing weary and agitated. Where had McCarthy and Anson gone? Just when one of the men rose to stretch, an APB was issued to all on-duty highway patrolmen: A vehicle had been hijacked from a workman on the top of Vail Pass just thirty minutes ago. Make: Ford F-150. Color: white. License plate: Colorado 681-DNT.
“Bingo!” one of them yelled as they raced toward the door. Both men were in the parking lot in seconds, jumping into their silver Jeep Grand Cherokee, heading toward I-70.
“Which way do you think they headed?” the man riding shotgun asked the driver.
“I’ve got to believe they’re heading toward Denver. That’s going to be the easiest place for them to get lost and regroup. But to be safe, let’s alert our sentries monitoring both directions, and we’ll head east toward Denver.”
The next five minutes were filled with multiple scrambled cell phone calls to various lookouts, instructing them to watch for the stolen Ford truck. Both men now believed that the two most likely contact points would be the sentries on the east side of the Continental Divide and those at the small tourist town of Georgetown.
As the Jeep approached the west side of the 1.7-mile Eisenhower Tunnel, none of the alerted sentries had spotted anything. Then, a caller from the other side of the tunnel spotted the white Ford. The passenger in the Jeep was issuing the instructions to follow the truck, maintain visual contact, and wait for them to catch up, when he suddenly screamed, “Shit!”
“What?” said the driver, twisting his head to look at his partner.
“We lost the cell in the tunnel.”
“No worries, we’ll catch them in less than five minutes.” He pressed on the accelerator.
Jack and Greg were discussing their plan for when they reached Denver. Greg’s roommate from the University of Missouri, Scott Holly, was a well-known columnist at
The Denver Morning News
. The plan was to reach the downtown offices of the newspaper and contact Scott. With a little luck, they could secure a private office and begin their work. First, they would get video documentation of Jack detailing his experience with the Will Hawkins campaign. Simultaneously, Greg would begin a series of articles outlining the criminal activities associated with both the current administration and the Democratic front-runner. No one at the
News
, beyond Scott, could be trusted, Greg said.
The stolen Ford F-150 was only a few miles from the small, rundown mining town of Silver Plume when Jack noticed a Jeep Cherokee behind them that had been there much too long. Jack slowed the truck to see if the Jeep would pass. When it did not, Jack stated very matter-of-factly, “I think we have company.”
Greg quickly turned to check the vehicle, telegraphing to the pursuers that they had been spotted. The driver of the Jeep jammed the accelerator to the floor just as Jack did the same. Both vehicles accelerated, hurtling down the 6 percent grade, passing the runaway truck ramps prominently featured on the steep slope. The Jeep was gaining on the pickup as both vehicles approached eighty miles per hour. They reached a straightaway, and the passenger in the Jeep leaned out of his window and aimed at the Ford with his government-issue .44 magnum. The slug shattered the back window.
“Son of a bitch!” Greg yelled, ducking as low as he could.
Jack said, “Climb into the back and see if there’s anything you can throw at them to slow them down.”
Greg looked at Jack and burst out laughing.
“You have any better ideas?” Jack yelled as he veered across both lanes, trying to throw off the gunman’s aim. Greg clambered into the back seat of the extended cab and, as the truck swerved wildly, started digging through the tools piled on the seat and the floor between the seats. As he was deciding on his first weapon, a shot hit him in the left shoulder, knocking him to the floor in the back seat.
Greg dragged himself back up on the seat and inspected his shoulder. It appeared the bullet had passed through the fleshy part of the upper arm, missing both bone and tendon. While there was a significant amount of blood and it hurt like hell, Greg was still reasonably functional. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, and now he was pissed.
Another bullet whizzed through the cab of the truck as Greg launched a small sledgehammer out the window; it landed harmlessly in front of the pursuing Jeep. Next he flung a large file, also missing the mark. Finally, with all the strength he could muster, he threw a large clawhammer, and it connected with the pursuing vehicle. It smashed into the driver’s side windshield and shattered the safety glass, and the Jeep swerved sharply. Next he threw a crescent wrench, which also hit the speeding vehicle. The gunman, for the moment, retreated to the safety of the vehicle’s interior.
Jack knew that the reprieve would not last long. Traveling at close to ninety miles per hour, he decided to gamble that the pursuers were not as familiar with this stretch of the interstate as he was. About one and a half miles before the small mountain community of Georgetown, there was an exit to a scenic overlook parking lot where tourists could view a trestle bridge spanning Clear Creek on the historic Georgetown Narrow Gauge Railway.
Jack approached the exit to the overlook without slowing. Then without warning, he locked up the brakes on the pickup and swerved to the right into the small parking area. The silver Jeep followed, barely missing the guardrail on the far side of the entrance. Jack accelerated through the tiny lot, swerving hard left to re-enter I-70 on the other side. The driver of the Jeep was still correcting from his narrow miss at the entrance when he saw Jack swerve left. His instinct was to do the same. However, the vehicle was not in position to make an opposite turn that severe, and the Jeep began to roll. As Greg crawled up off the seat following Jack’s bizarre series of stunts, he saw the Jeep roll over the edge of the overlook, disappearing toward the creek and rocks in the canyon below.
“Slow down,” he yelled. “We lost them; or more accurately, they lost it.”
Jack glanced into the back seat. “We need to stop and fix your shoulder.”
“I’ll worry about the shoulder; you get us to Denver.”
T
he fifty-five-minute drive from just outside Georgetown to Denver went quietly and smoothly. Though both Jack and Greg were convinced that another brush with the law was highly likely, they ultimately decided that finding another vehicle along the reasonably uninhabited stretch of I-70 was probably more dangerous. There were three separate incidents where Jack was sure they were spotted, but pure luck or divine intervention allowed them safe passage to the relative obscurity of the big city.
The offices of
The Denver Morning News
were located on Colfax Avenue, just blocks from the state’s capitol. Jack found a covered parking garage nearby and pulled into a space on the second floor, where they abandoned the now-trashed Ford pickup. Greg found a well-worn pea coat in the backseat of the truck and did his best to put it on. With the damaged shoulder and bloodstained shirt as well hidden as possible, the two men made the short trek toward the newspaper’s headquarters. As they entered the main lobby, Jack trailed a half step behind Greg, ready to catch him if he stumbled or lost consciousness. Greg, clearly running on adrenaline, straightened up as he approached the security guard behind the reception desk. “We’re here to see Scott Holly.”
The guard laughed out loud. “It’s not even 9:00,” the guard said, continuing to chuckle. “It’s rare for Mr. Holly to be here anytime before 10:00.”
“Give it a try, will you?” Greg responded. “Scott and I were college roommates, and I was hoping to surprise him before I have to head out to the airport.”
The guard shrugged. “Name?”
“Can’t we make it a surprise?” Greg pleaded innocently.
The guard dialed. He waited a moment, then his eyes widened when the phone was answered. “Mr. Holly,” he said, “it’s Phil, down in front. I’ve got a visitor here for you … No, he says he’s a friend, here to surprise you. All right, then. Thanks.”
The guard looked up at Greg, “He said he’ll be right down.”
When the elevator doors opened, Scott Holly immediately spotted Greg across the lobby. “Larson!” he yelled. “What the hell are you doing here?”
As he strode across the lobby, he realized something was up.
“Jesus, man, what happened to you?”
Then he looked over and saw Jack. “Hey, that’s the guy—”
Greg interrupted, “Can we finish this conversation upstairs?”
“Sure,” Scott responded quietly.
The three men rode the elevator to the seventh floor in silence. Finally, Greg looked over at Scott and said, “Scott Holly, Jack McCarthy.” The two men shook hands. “Scott, we need a conference room for the day. And it would be great if you didn’t let anyone know we were here.”
“What the hell is going on, Greg?”
“I’ll tell you when we get in the conference room.”
Five minutes later, the three men were in a conference room with the blinds pulled. Greg and Jack alternated telling their story to Scott. His jaw hung in disbelief as they relayed the entire saga.
When they were finished, Greg looked at Scott and said, “I can assure you this is not a prank. This is the story of the last hundred years.”
“What do you need from me?” Scott finally responded.
“A laptop, a video camera, and a discreet doctor,” Greg said, revealing his shoulder for the first time.
“The computer and the camera should be easy. But Jesus, Greg, it looks like you should go to the hospital.”
“Not yet, man. But once we’re ready to contact the FBI, I’m sure I’ll get plenty of top-notch medical treatment.”
Scott hesitated, then said, “I’ll see what I can do.” He turned toward the door.
“Scott,” Greg called. Scott turned back toward him. “No one but the doctor, please.”
“Got it,” he said as he left the two men alone in the small, cluttered room.
“I’ve got to call my boss,” Greg said.
“No, it’s too soon,” Jack responded. “It’s a long time until tomorrow’s edition of
The Dallas Free Press
hits the streets.”
“Jack, Tom Johnson is the editor of the nation’s seventh-largest newspaper. He’s built his career on the ability to maintain confidentiality and protect his sources. He can be trusted. Plus, I need him to reserve space for my first installment of the story that’s going to rock the world.”
Jack was quiet for a while. “All right, you can call. But don’t tell him where we are yet.”
“Deal,” Greg responded, reaching for the phone.
Tom Johnson was in his office, and after a brief tirade directed at Greg for not keeping in touch, he remained quiet as Greg relayed the entire story. When Greg finished, there was silence on the other end of the line.
“Tom?” Greg said.
“Jesus, Larson, are you crazy? You expect
The Dallas Free Press
to run a story that accuses the president of the United States and one of the most powerful families in the world of murder, conspiracy, ecoterrorism, and just about every other felonious crime I can think of? Not going to happen.”
“Tom, this is about truth. It’s about justice. And I would venture to say, it’s about a guaranteed Pulitzer.”
Johnson sighed on the other end of the line. “Can we prove it?”