Дэвид Балдаччи - The Sixth Man

The caravan of black SUVs with government plates stormed the causeway and roared toward the entrance at Cutter’s. Six men jumped out and approached the first layer of guards. Behind them Cutter’s lay black and nearly invisible. The darkness was interrupted only by the weak moonlight and stabs of narrow beams as guards with flashlights raced around trying to secure the perimeter. Battery-powered sirens shrieked.

One of the men held up his badge. “FBI. We’re here for Edgar Roy. Now.”

“What?” said a bewildered guard.

The man shoved his creds and badge into the uniform’s face. “FBI. You have a total security meltdown. Roy is a Level One Federal Prisoner. That was part of the paperwork when he was remanded here. His security is the jurisdiction of the Bureau in the event of a crisis at Cutter’s Rock. Now open the gates or we’ll arrest your ass right now.”

The guards seemed paralyzed as they stared out at the flood of armed men wearing FBI windbreakers and body armor.

The guards turned and manually pushed open the gates and the SUVs raced through the gap.

When they reached the main entrance, the new director who had replaced Carla Dukes was there to greet them. He ordered the guards to open the last set of doors and to immediately release Edgar Roy into the custody of the FBI.

Edgar Roy heard the doors opening and closing. He heard the sounds of heavy boots racing through the facility. He didn’t look up when the sounds stopped at his cell. He didn’t turn his head when the cell door was manually opened. He let his body go limp when the strong hands reached for him.

He was yanked upward, his head banging on the combat helmet of one of the men who had come for him. They half-carried him down the hall.

One man said into his ear, “Move your feet, asshole, or I’ll put a round right in your skull.”

Edgar Roy started to move, his weakened legs scissoring in painful little hops.

The darkness raced past them. Sounds, voices, sirens. He wanted to cover his ears, but the men had death grips on his arms.

He saw faces as they reached the front entrance. The new director stared at Roy, barely concealing his triumphant smile. The massive front doors stood open.

For the first time in months, Edgar Roy was outside. He could smell the ocean; he could see the moon.

He had no time to enjoy this small taste of freedom, particularly because he knew he wasn’t free at all. He was thrown into the rear seat of one of the SUVs, and men crammed in after him. Turbo engines started, wheels gripped asphalt. Roy was thrown backward in his seat as the SUV whipped around, hit sixty a few seconds later, and catapulted toward the exit.

They crossed the causeway. The truck turned left and slowed. The two trucks behind them did the same. Ten minutes later they followed a road that was their natural way out of the area. It was isolated, dark, nothing around except a long ribbon of asphalt and trees.

Their natural way out.

Roy felt a bump as the truck hit something in the road. There was an explosion, though Roy felt no concussive force. The truck wasn’t lifted into the air, but it was suddenly engulfed in a wall of fog.

Someone yelled. Roy felt the SUV lurch to the right and then the left. Men around him gagged. Something tugged at his arm. He felt a metal barrel against his cheek. He thought he heard a click, like a gun hammer being pulled back.

The smoke poured through crevices in the vehicle. Roy could see nothing. It was like they were in an open-cockpit plane and had just flown into a cloud. He heard the other trucks whipping and sliding around behind them. Men screamed, cursed, choked.

He jerked as the shot was fired. Glass exploded next to his head. Some of the shards hit him, cutting his face.

He took one deep breath, and that was the last thing he remembered doing.

SLIGHT MOVEMENT.

Slight nausea.

He saw his sister pivot in the old family kitchen. Then the memory shifted to something far more recent.

He saw the face in the dirt staring up at him from the barn floor.

Back to his sister pivoting.

Then his father’s face.

Then the face in the dirt.

It seemed all connected, though it couldn’t be.

His mind was a mishmash.

It had never been that before. Never.

Edgar Roy opened his eyes once and then quickly closed them as a pain tugged at his brain. He opened them once more. Something pulled at him. He slid upward, as though being yanked from deep water. Everything around him felt slick, wet.

“Eddie?”

His eyes closed once more.

“Eddie?”

He forced his eyes open. He felt slow, stupid, drunk. Feelings he had never before had in his life.

“Eddie? Can you sit up by yourself?”

With an effort he righted himself and looked at her.

Kelly Paul sat next to him in the rear seat of a van that had tinted windows. There were other people with him and his sister. The van was not moving.

The tall man was in the front passenger seat. The skeptical dark-haired woman was in the driver’s seat.

Peter Bunting sat on the other side of Paul.

Bunting said, “Edgar, are you all right? You were bleeding when they got to you.”

Roy touched the side of his head and felt the bandage there.

He mumbled, “Shot. Missed. Glass.”

His sister said, “It’s okay, Eddie. Close call, but it’s okay.”

“K-el?” he said, the name coming out thick and disjointed.

“Just take it easy, Eddie. You breathed in some nasty stuff. No lasting effects, but it takes a while to run its course. Once it’s out of your system you’ll feel much better.”

“You did that?”

“I’m afraid it was unavoidable.”

He felt something at his ankle. Well, more accurately, he didn’t feel something at his shin. He looked down. His restraint anklet was gone.

Paul said, “I didn’t think you’d want that on any longer.”

Roy looked at the dark-haired woman.

Michelle stared back at him in the rearview mirror. She wore a shoulder holster and an anxious expression. Sean was next to her, looking equally concerned.

Sean said to Paul, “Let’s just hope that really wasn’t the FBI who came to get your brother.”

Roy rubbed his face and willed his mind to clear itself of all the smoke, the rubbish, and the inefficiencies.

“It wasn’t the FBI,” he said.

“How do you know that?” asked Sean.

“Because one of the men said to me, ‘Move your feet, asshole, or I’ll put a round right in your skull.’ ”

This came out more like a playback of a recording and both Michelle and Sean looked relieved.

“Okay,” Sean said. “Definitely not the Bureau.”

Michelle said to Paul, “How did you work out that was going to happen?”

“The men watching the facility? That was the first clue. Then a maintenance crew went in recently to do some routine work. Only that work had been done less than a month ago and wasn’t due to be done again for another three months. They spent a long time with the backup generator.”

“Then why did they even let them in the building?” asked Sean.

“Because the man who replaced Carla Dukes as director at Cutter’s authorized it. And he was being paid off.”

“And that work was really to sabotage the electrical systems and the backup generator,” said Michelle.

“And as we saw, they were successful in doing so,” replied Paul.

“So you called some… friends?” prompted Sean.

“Acquaintances,” she corrected. “They came, they saw, and they kicked ass.”

“They were going to do what, kill him?” said Michelle, eyeing Roy.

“Eventually, yes, and blame it on Peter or me or some other convenient target.”