John Gilstrap - Damage Control

“Excuse me,” Gail said. “Where might I find Reverend Jackie Mitchell?”

The smaller of the two regarded Gail with undisguised annoyance. “Who are you?”

“I’m Tess McLain,” Gail said, stating her alias of the day aloud for the first time. She pulled out a badge next-the very one she’d used when she’d been sheriff of Samson, Indiana. “But most people call me Sheriff.”

The badge had the desired effect, rocking the guards back just enough to give her the psychological edge. “You were about to tell me how to find Reverend Mitchell,” she prompted.

The small guard-she could see now that his tag read VOLPE-turned to his buddy, Corbin, who puffed up a bit when he asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

Gail made a show of pulling the badge back closer to her face and looking at it before pivoting it around for the guards to see again. “You see this, right? It’s a badge.”

“But this isn’t your jurisdiction,” Volpe said. He seemed proud that he’d read a comic book that mentioned laws. And, you know, stuff.

“Exactly,” Gail said. This was all one big bluff that ran opposed to every oath she’d ever sworn, but Jonathan’s life was at risk. She had no idea what exactly would mean in this context, but it sounded good.

Corbin reached for the phone. “I should call up there first.”

“Actually, no,” Gail said. She found herself falling back into her former role all too easily, and this guy was beginning to piss her off. “You should call up there after you tell me where Reverend Mitchell’s office is.”

It was Volpe’s turn. “Well, Sheriff, Reverend Mitchell has a full schedule. You pretty much need an appointment to see her.”

“Are you her secretaries?” Gail asked.

They recoiled in unison. “No, ma’am.”

“So that means that you’re not the keepers of her schedule, right?”

Corbin said, “No, ma’am, we’re not. Harriett Burke is Reverend Mitchell’s assistant. She’d have best access to the pastor’s schedule.”

“And where might I find Ms. Burke?”

“The pastoral offices are on the fourteenth floor, but-”

Gail smiled and walked off toward the elevators, tossing a casual “thank you” over her left shoulder. She noted that Officer Volpe was reaching for the phone, and wondered what the next layer of security in a place like this might actually be.

“Excuse me, Sheriff, but you can’t just go there.”

Gail didn’t slow. Call it the Badge Effect. What were they going to do? Tackle her? She imagined that there must be additional security up on the “pastoral floor”-and what peculiar breed of hubris must there be to even have such a thing? — but she was confident that she could deal with them

This was the effect that Jonathan Grave had on people, Gail thought. There was a thrill to breaking rules. His was an intoxicating view of the world: a place where justice is held hostage to personal ambition, and where the powerful are neutered by the simple act of individuals exercising their rights.

Once Gail arrived at the elevator lobby, she pressed the up button and waited.

Corbin strutted toward her. “Ma’am. Sheriff. I can’t let you go up there.”

Gail looked at him and smiled. “I understand that. I apologize for putting you in a difficult position.”

“No problem,” the guard said, and he started to lead the way back toward the security desk.

Only, Gail didn’t follow.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“I said I can’t let you go up there.”

The elevator arrived. “I know,” Gail said. She stepped inside. “And I apologized for putting you in a difficult position.”

As the elevator doors started to close, the guard thrust his hand out to stop them, and the doors rebounded. Gail locked eyes with the guard, daring him to make the next move.

“I’m a law enforcement officer,” Gail said after the door rebounded for the third time. “How much harm can I cause?”

In calculating the travel time, Jonathan had woefully overestimated the quality of the roads through this part of the world. Mud holes, nonexistent pavement, tight switchbacks, and steep drops made thirty miles an hour feel like speeding. And the heat. Good God, the heat. During the ten hours they’d been at it, they’d encountered maybe a dozen other vehicles, split more or less evenly between those that came at them and those that were anxious to pass from behind.

For Jonathan, who’d never been a great fan of high places-parachute jumps notwithstanding-the sunlight made the trip more harrowing than it had been during the night. It’s one thing to know intellectually that the road dropped away, but something else entirely to see how far away the landing spot would be.

“How are you holding out, Big Guy?” he asked.

“I can do this all day,” he said. “We’re gonna need to stop again to fill up on gas soon.”

“How much longer?”

“The computer in the dash tells me sixty miles, but the way this engine’s screaming, I don’t know that I trust the computer.”

“Well, this isn’t the place,” Jonathan said. “Next time the road flattens out or widens up, we’ll take care of it.”

A chirping sound drew his attention to the Pathfinder’s center console. The satellite phone. “Oh, this can’t be good,” he said. He pressed the connect button. “Hello.”

He knew it would be Venice even before she said a word. She was literally the only person not in the Pathfinder who had the number. “Scorpion, we have a problem. SkysEye shows a military vehicle approaching you from the opposite direction.”

Jonathan sat up straighter in his seat, and motioned for Boxers to stop the truck. “What kind of military vehicle?”

Boxers made a growling sound. “This just friggin’ gets better and better.”

“I can tell you that it’s green, it’s bigger than you, and that it’s a vehicle,” Venice reported. “Sorry, Scorpion, but that’s the best I can do. It just happened to be passing through a clearing when SkysEye took its picture.”

“Stand by,” Jonathan said. He caught Boxers up on the details. “I’m open to suggestions,” he said.

“I got nothin’,” the Big Guy said. “I sure as hell can’t turn around here. I lay myself at the altar of your superb leadership.” That was Big Guy speak for Tell me what you want to do.

Jonathan surveyed the surroundings, hoping that the terrain itself might give him some ideas. On his left, the heavy underbrush was unrelenting, and on his right, the roadway fell off into a valley of rolling green that would have been beautiful if featured in a National Geographic photo spread, but was in fact an ugly problem that put them at a tactical disadvantage. Anytime you find yourself in a position where your only escape routes involve the same ones your enemies are using to attack, you can pretty much anticipate a really bad day.

He keyed his mike. “How far away are they?”

“Call it a half mile,” she said. “But they’re headed downhill. I give you three minutes.”

Shit.

“What’s going on?” Tristan asked from the backseat. His voice sounded thick with sleep.

“Park it, Big Guy,” Jonathan said. “Tristan, out. Now.”

“What are we doing?” Tristan squeaked.

“Yeah, what are we doing?” Boxers matched the tone perfectly.

Jonathan reached to the pouch on his vest behind his right shoulder and turned on his radio. “I’m switching to radio, Mother Hen,” he said, and then he closed the sat phone and slipped it into a different pouch. To Tristan, he said, “There’s another vehicle approaching, and I don’t want to be trapped in here.”

“Who is it?”