“Maybe one of them will stray from the herd. Doubtful, but you never know.”

  “And if one does, you’ll go after him?”

  “Yes. This probably won’t happen, but if it did, we could hit the jackpot. I’m not sure what these men know, but it’s bound to be a hell of a lot more than we do. At minimum, whatever I could learn would at least suggest other directions of inquiry. It’s a long shot, but worth an extra fifteen minutes.”

  “I assume you’re well armed,” said Jenna.

  Blake smiled. “I’m probably setting off metal detectors as far away as Lindbergh Field even as we speak,” he said.

  Jenna stared worriedly into his eyes for several seconds. She continued to be convinced that this man was very special. Not nearly as brilliant as Nathan had been, of course, but very sharp. She had already developed an affection for him, and while she wasn’t into metaphysics, if people really did posses auras, his was nothing but positive.

  “Be careful, Aaron,” she said.

  He nodded and opened the car door. “You know it.”

  Jenna followed his figure as he rushed down the slope, but in less than a minute he was completely out of sight.

  “Good luck,” she whispered inside the empty car. “And come back soon.”

  14

  Blake hustled down the mountain at as close to a run as he could manage given the slope of the terrain and the often dense foliage. He could still hear the faint sound of chain saws off in the distance, although less and less frequently as the job was likely nearing completion. Now it was probably only a matter of carving the main trunks of the felled trees into smaller pieces for easier removal.

  The faster he could find a good vantage point and get the images he needed, the faster he could return to Jenna Morrison. He should have left her at his apartment. He had expected, at minimum, to be able to examine tread marks and a trail of crushed vegetation and small trees the trailer had surely sheared on its slide down the hill, like a butter knife of the gods. He had thought it likely that the trailer would still be at its final destination, held in place by several thick trunks that had refused to buckle.

  While he knew there was a possibility the Hostess truck had been extricated from the site, he could never have expected a scrub this comprehensive, this fast. Nor that he would be forced to leave Jenna alone as he was doing now. Maybe his skills were already getting dull. Maybe too many divorce cases had softened him, muddled his instincts.

  Well, he had better sharpen up quickly. Whatever he was involved with was big. Important. And it would likely provide the adrenaline rush he craved, even though he knew this was something he should be avoiding.

  As an added bonus, he liked Jenna Morrison quite a bit, which was a rarity, since so many of his clients he found despicable. If there was a God, he sure had a sense of humor. When Blake had wished for a more challenging assignment, he was pretty sure he wasn’t asking for one this challenging.

  The forest was cool and the air crisp and refreshing. Uncountable needles and pine-cones littered the firm ground, and the smell of sap and pine filled his nostrils.

  At last he came to his destination: a cut in the trees created by a twenty-foot wall of rock, bereft of most vegetation, sticking out like a knee through torn green slacks. He had seen this jagged wall from the road as he was passing the chain saw crew, being sure to glance up the slope as well as down. His sniper training had served him well, allowing him to assess possible vantage points in only a glance.

  He lowered himself to the landing above the rock face and peered over the edge and down the slope. The road was thirty yards distant and the men he was after twenty yards farther still. All six men remained where they had been, tiny in the distance but well within range of his camera.

  He used the Nikon as a spotting scope, dialing up full magnification and clicking any number of still photos, making sure to catch each of their faces in at least one shot. After he thought he had reached his goal he filmed in video mode for thirty seconds.

  Perfect. He had all the footage he needed.

  Blake considered staying put in the hope that one of the men might peel away, as planned, but given the terrain and the distance to his quarry, even if this happened it would take him too long to take advantage. He sighed. It had been a long shot anyway. Time to return to Jenna.

  The underbrush rustled directly behind him!

  Blake wheeled around, his hand instinctively reaching for his gun, but before he could draw he realized someone had a bead on him at point-blank range and he wouldn’t have a chance if he completed the move.

  Blake knew his skills had deteriorated, but not this much. Any man who could sneak up on him this effectively had to be very good. There was an art to moving through a forest like a wraith, not snapping a single twig or displacing a single pine-cone. If his assailant hadn’t spooked a small animal hidden in the underbrush—which was simply bad luck for him and unavoidable—he could have tapped Blake on the shoulder before he would have known he was being stalked.

  Blake shot his arms into the air in a show of surrender. “What’s going on,” he blubbered fearfully, trying to channel an innocent civilian who would be wetting his pants at this point. “You can have my money. Take it. Just don’t hurt me.”

  The man hesitated. “Who are you and what are you doing?”

  “My name is Don Barnes,” said Blake, the wheels in his head turning at a furious pace. He had always done his best thinking under pressure, which had saved his life on any number of occasions.

  He nodded toward the Nikon still in his hand. “I’m a birdwatcher. Please. I’ll give you my money. My ATM code. Anything! I don’t want to make any trouble.”

  “Birdwatcher, my ass!” snapped the man.

  Blake knew the man must be a scout, working with the crew down below to be sure no one spied on them or sniped at them from above. The fact that Blake was now in the precisely perfect spot for either endeavor was too great a coincidence for this guy to buy. Still, the longer he could play the innocent rube, the longer he could instill some doubt, some hesitation in his adversary, the more chance the man might became lulled by Blake’s harmless appearance and dismiss him as a true threat.

  “You have five seconds to tell me who you really are.”

  “I’m a birdwatcher,” pleaded Blake, half hysterically. “Really. My club put out a bulletin. There have been some spottings of—” he hesitated, realizing that there was probably no subject he knew less about than birds. “In this area here,” he added, pointing in the exact opposite direction from which the man’s comrades were finishing up their work, to cover for his hesitation and in the hope of sowing as much doubt about his motives as possible.

  The gunman rolled his eyes. “Spottings of what?” he said. “You didn’t finish.”

  “I’ve never had a gun pointed at me,” said Blake, stalling for time so he could manufacture some exotic sounding bird name. “So I’m pretty stressed out. I was going to say spottings of Blue-tailed Russian Warblers. Very rare.”

  The man removed a phone from his pocket. “George,” he said, obviously addressing his PDA, “is there a species of bird named the Blue Tailed Russian Warbler?”

  “There are over seventy species of warbler,” broadcast the phone seconds later. “But none are referred to by this name.”

  Blake blew out a long breath and lowered his arms slowly to his sides. “Fucking Google,” he muttered, although he knew he only had himself to blame. The old him would have thought quickly enough to realize he didn’t know squat about birds and wouldn’t have walked into this landmine. He should have kept it generic. He should have just said he was looking for rare birds. Period. What an idiot. Not that his ruse would have worked for long anyway.

  “Toss me your wallet,” said the assailant. “Carefully.”

  The man caught the leather Frisbee Blake sent his way and opened it hastily. Blake’s PI identification was framed neatly inside a windowed compartment, impossible to miss. “Birdwatcher, private detective, pretty much the same thing, huh Aaron?”

  Blake didn’t respond.

  “Draw your gun with two fingers and toss it over to me.”

  Blake considered pretending he didn’t have a gun, but even the lamest of private investigator’s would be carrying, so there wasn’t much point to the attempt. And if he cooperated the man would be less likely to suspect he had another gun in an ankle holster.

  “So what are you doing here?” said the man after Blake had tossed him his Sig Sauer nine millimeter handgun. “Wait, hold on,” he added, removing his phone from a pocket and performing a few quick manipulations. When he was finished he dropped the phone gently on a cushion of brown pine needles near his feet. “What are you doing here?” he repeated.

  “I office nearby,” replied Blake, impressed that the man was savvy enough to have begun recording him so he could detect even the slightest changes to Blake’s story during subsequent interrogations. “I was here late last night and saw a truck slide off the road. And today all traces of it are gone. Since I’ve never seen a Forestry Service crew respond to anything this quickly, I was curious. I’m between clients, and I’m trying to keep my skills sharp.” Blake shrugged. “And I love hiking. So two birds with one stone sort of thing,” he added, realizing as he said it that this was possibly the only thing he knew about birds: apparently, it was always better to save ammunition while killing them.

  “Sure,” said the man as he tossed the wallet back to Blake. “Why don’t I believe you? She went and hired a PI, that’s what she did. Very good,” he added appreciatively.

  Blake remained silent.

  “You’re working for Jenna Morrison, aren’t you?”

  Blake put on a confused expression. “I have no idea who that is.”

  The man drew his arm out to full extension, the gun still pointed at Blake’s head. “The next lie I hear will be your last. Got it? You’ll be able to search for your Russian Warbler in the afterlife.”

  The man’s face turned to granite. “I say again, You’re working for Jenna Morrison, aren’t you?”

  Blake gulped. “Yes,” he croaked, doing his best to emulate a shivering bunny nearing a nervous breakdown. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you what happened. I have a practice near the Mexican border in San Diego. This chick walks in, crazier than a loon, ranting and raving about all hell breaking loose on this mountain last night. I didn’t believe her for a second, of course. A real nutcase. But I’m new to this. I’ve only been doing divorce cases, and she insisted she’d pay me a small fortune. So I humored her.”

  “Where is she?” he said severely.

  Blake shook his head as the kernel of a plan began to form in his mind. “I don’t know,” he whispered, his eyes wide with fear. “She was driving a Ford Fusion. A blue one. She paid me five hundred in cash to come up here and find evidence of a fucking Hostess cupcake truck. But she wouldn’t tell me where she was staying. She didn’t trust me. Said I should investigate and then she’d find me to tell me what she wanted me to do next. That’s all I know. I swear it!”

  “I’m not buying it. So you have five seconds to tell me something I can use. Four. Three—”

  A surge of triumph swept through Blake. He had set the hook as deep as he had hoped.

  “Okay!” he shouted, trying to force a tear to his eye. He couldn’t quite manage, but he hoped he looked properly freaked out and vulnerable. “I took some photos of her car as she left. Including a close-up of her license plate.”

  The man considered. “Another bluff? To buy you some time?”

  “No!” he pleaded. “I took the pictures with this,” he said, holding up the powerful black camera. “Really. See for yourself.”

  He held out the Nikon. Just as the assailant was about to take it, he let it go. The man was insanely fast, instinctively catching the strap before the camera hit the ground, but as he did so Blake executed a roundhouse kick that caught the man’s gun with precision, sending it flying into the woods. In a continuation of the same motion, Blake rolled to his left and drew his backup gun from his ankle holster.

  “Freeze!” he shouted at the man, who now dropped the camera. “Hands up!”

  The man did as he was told.

  Blake recovered his Sig Sauer and camera from the ground and took several quick steps backwards, putting additional distance between himself and a man no doubt well-versed in hand-to-hand combat. He returned his backup gun to his ankle holster, his eyes and gun never wavering from his target.

  “Very good,” said the man. “You got me to underestimate you. I won’t do that again. Obvious military training. Jenna Morrison chose well.”

  “Now I’m going to ask the questions,” said Blake.

  His voice, which he had kept meek and fearful during his attempts at deception, now conveyed nothing but competence and self-assurance. “And if you lie, I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to maim you. Take out parts you need, one by one. Kneecaps. Testicles.” He shrugged. “But don’t worry, nothing you’ll miss too much.”

  Blake paused to let his bluff sink in. “What’s your name?”

  “Justin Hone.”

  “Sure it is. I guess now it’s your turn. Toss me your wallet.”

  The man did as ordered.

  Other than a driver’s license the man had nothing to indicate who he might work for, or even if he was military or civilian, not that Blake had any doubt in this regard. “Seems we aren’t really being honest with each other. Says here your name is Mark Argent.”

  Blake paused, not expecting a reply and not getting one. “So who are you, Mark Argent? And what is this all about?”

  “First, you should know my threat to kill you was only a bluff. I would never have really done it.”

  “Easy to say when the gun is on the other foot, isn’t it? But you haven’t answered my question.”

  “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

  “No kidding,” said Blake, rolling his eyes. “Which is why I’m asking you: what am I dealing with?”

  “I’m with a government organization that doesn’t officially exist. One that is only known to those who are a part of it, and the president. Not even the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs has been read in. We have virtually unlimited resources. You can’t win.”

  “I have familiarity with Black Ops. You aren’t invincible.”

  “Yeah, well we’re blacker than Black Ops. Compared to us, a standard Black Ops group is about as stealthy as the Mickey Mouse Club.”

  “So what are you saying, that you’re like Sector Seven? Men in fucking black?”

  The man sighed. “Look, I’m going to level with you. Jenna Morrison’s story is true, which after all you’ve seen and experienced here I’m sure you’ve figured out. She had a rough time of it last night. We picked up her and her fiancé, but we meant them no harm. We treated them well. The job was to deliver them to the top guy and let him explain the situation.”

  “Then why did you murder Nathan Wexler in cold blood?” demanded Blake.

  Argent looked genuinely confused. “Is that what she said happened?”

  “Are you saying it didn’t?” said Blake.

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t there. No one on the exfil team survived. So I don’t know what went down. But the orders were to bring them in with zero damage. Nathan Wexler was hugely important.” He paused. “But it was all a horrible misunderstanding. We weren’t expecting an attack. If you take me to Jenna Morrison, I can explain everything. I’m not your enemy,” he said evenly.

  Blake considered. Every word Argent had just said could be a lie. Or it could all be true. Or anything in between. After all, in the same situation, he had not hesitated to lie as convincingly as he could. So was this a ruse? To buy time until he could turn the tables?

  So what now? Argent knew his real name. He could leave the man in the woods, unconscious. But given the capabilities of this group, leaving someone alive who knew his name was the equivalent of suicide. So was it a choice between homicide and suicide?

  Blake shook his head. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t about to kill Argent in cold blood, even if this was the smartest play. He would have to take him prisoner. Assume the man was telling the truth and let him explain things to Jenna. The risks of this strategy were high, since trying to control a man as highly trained as Argent was asking for trouble, but he had no other choice.

  “Drop it!” screamed a voice ten feet behind him. “Now!”

  Shit! thought Blake. Was there anyone who wasn’t able to glide through the woods without making a sound?

  He let the Sig Sauer fall from his hands and to the ground for a second time and turned to face this new threat. As expected, the newcomer had a gun pointed at his chest, this one fitted with a sleek silencer.

  “Rourk,” said Argent, his voice reflecting relief. “I expected you sooner. But better late than never.”

  “Sorry,” said the man named Rourk. “You were already at gunpoint when I arrived. But when I heard you mention Jenna Morrison, I thought I’d wait a few more seconds to see if your friend here would say anything interesting.”

  Then, without another word, Rourk calmly pulled the trigger of his gun twice in rapid succession.

  Blake stumbled forward, his head reeling, not able to believe that after all he had survived overseas, his death would occur on a beautiful mountain in California.

  15

  Blake clutched at his chest as two separate realizations penetrated his skull: his hands remained dry and were not turning blood-red in color. And Mark Argent had collapsed to the ground behind him.

  Blake wheeled around as blood poured from two holes in Argent’s chest and the man’s eyes fluttered closed for the last time. Blake was unscathed. Rourk had shifted the gun a few degrees just before he fired and had hit Argent instead.

  Blake turned back to Rourk, obviously not quite the comrade Argent had been hoping for.

  “So I missed the first part of your conversation with Argent,” said the killer calmly. “Who are you, and how do you know Jenna Morrison?”

 

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