Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

The silent laughter rose again, and the Boatman pushed back the hood of his rotten cloak. A bald bone skull seemed to grin, and the black holes of the eyes had seen an eternity of life and death.

Why are you here, you decayed piece of trash?

Why is there a bridge in Pakistan, in a place with little or no water?

There was a huge flood. Thousands died. Don’t you watch the news?

Yes. I have been busy there, and with paying customers. Their friends and relatives do not want the souls of their loved ones stuck on this side of the veil, to loiter around as unwanted ghosts. If the flood collapsed dams, no mere bridge would have held back such water. So the bridge is over a tributary waterway, not a major river. And why is a bridge needed at all now that the flood has receded? I can hardly paddle my little boat in that trickle.

Kyle waited a minute before speaking again.

I have known you many years.

Yes.

This is the only time you have ever made any sense.

Do not forget the gold coins. And take two for your own eyes, and two more for those of the girl. She also will be on this voyage.

Gold is too expensive. Copper pennies will have to do. How about I pay you a dollar in advance? Give me room to work.

The skull turned upward and looked toward the sky, and the skeletal arms were raised wide.

You would bargain with death?

Yes. And I will cheat you every time.

The laugh turned into a shriek from the gaping mouth, and the Virginia inferno climbed higher, licking the bottom of the night clouds. Kyle’s nostrils seemed clogged by the thick scent of charred, dead bodies. There was a flash of light, and the Boatman vanished with a final hiss: “It begins now…”

Swanson snapped awake, with all senses alert, although he kept his eyes closed and his body immobile. He picked up the sound of cars going across the Key Bridge, but there was something else, a slight movement in the stillness, weight being gently pushed against the heavy grass on the slope where he lay, and he heard a man breathing, moving closer. With one approaching cautiously, there was probably another nearby. He heard the creak of a board from the dock, so the backup was down there, about fifteen feet away beside the water, to cover his partner.

As soon as Kyle opened his eyes, the nearest man made his rush, holding a thin, extended steel baton high above his head and ready to slam it down. He leaned in to make the strike, which made him slightly off balance on the gentle slope. Swanson dug his left foot into the soft dirt and pushed over into a roll hard to his right toward the attacker, and the baton swished harmlessly through the air. It smacked the ground at the same time Kyle rammed his shoulders into the man’s ankles.

The unknown assailant fell forward and hit the ground facedown with a loud grunt, stunned. Kyle finished the roll and smoothly came to his feet, drawing the .45 Colt from the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. The downed man wore a gray sweatshirt and straight-leg jeans, was probably about six feet tall, and had enjoyed too much fried chicken and pizza. Kyle stomped hard on the spinal column at the base of the skull with his left foot and felt and heard the C-2 neck vertebra give way with a loud snap as it forcibly parted from the C-3 under great force, in a classic hangman’s break.

He swiveled to face the second threat and saw the man charging from the dock, a dark figure moving fast but from lower ground. He was shorter and even wider than the other one and had Asian features. The blade of a knife flashed in the subdued lights below the bridge. Kyle raised his pistol and fired point-blank into the face, and the man jerked to a halt as the back of his head blew off in a spray of blood and bone. The body fell backward and landed on the grass with a wet sound. The double-tap of gunshots echoed wildly beneath the arch of the bridge.

Kyle held his Colt in both hands and methodically quartered the area around him. The choice of a baton and a knife instead of guns meant the two men were not expecting to be unsuccessful in the attack, and therefore they were likely professionals. It was unlikely that they had brought along even more support. Two tough pros would normally have been more than enough. When Swanson was certain no one else was there, he holstered his pistol and made a quick search of the pockets of the dead men. Neither had a wallet, nor any identification. Pros, for sure. Swanson for a moment considered dialing 911 on his cell but decided it would be better to just move on out of there. Let someone else report the sound of gunfire.

He walked up the hill and back into Georgetown. This whole thing was out of control. It was time for Trident to go black on it, and for Kyle and Beth Ledford to vanish. He was tired of people knowing where the fuck he was at.

THEY WERE ON INTERSTATE 95 only a few hours after the attack. Glowing strands of headlights marked the commuters flowing into the Washington corridor. Within an hour, the traffic would thicken in the southbound lanes to bind the cars trapped on it into a slow-moving parking lot. Swanson and Ledford were going the other way, as Kyle glided a big Land Rover north, heading for a small airport just outside of Providence, Rhode Island, that served private passenger planes. He would have preferred something less conspicuous than the big SUV but was thinking defensively, and the specially equipped vehicle was rigged with bulletproof glass, heavy-duty bumpers, tires that would resist gunfire, and interior weapons storage areas. It also had the advantage of sheer weight in case somebody tried to ram it, and its enhanced four-wheel drive would take it almost anywhere. The Land Rover had been part of the FBI fleet until earlier that morning, when Special Agent Dave Hunt checked it out in his own name, then handed the keys to Kyle with the warning that it was lousy on gas mileage. The wipers clicked methodically against the windshield as they drove through a light rain.

“Why don’t we just use a military flight out of Andrews?” she asked, leaning back in the big comfortable seat. “The general could clear it, right?”

“There is a hole somewhere in the comm net, Beth, and we don’t know where. We cannot trust normal operating procedures,” Swanson said. “What happened yesterday at Quantico, and then last night with me, could only have been planned with advance intelligence. Too many people had access to what we were doing. So from now on, we’re dark. Only the four other people in Trident know our plan, plus a few on the other end, along with the two of us—not even your mother can know what’s going on. Nothing is being written down, entered into any computer, or spoken on any open comm line or channel. We intend to keep this new loop as tight as possible.”

She thought that over. It still felt like they were running away. “Gunny, I think we should stay here and fight whoever they are. Instead you have us going on a cruise? It’s like we’re scared.”

“Just the opposite, Beth. We’re moving toward the real fight. The cause of all of this trouble obviously is in Pakistan.”

“The bridge.”

“Yes. The bridge.”

“And Task Force Trident is able to lay on a private jet and a yacht to get us there?”

Kyle pressed a button on the console to activate a device that showed no radar was painting them, then accelerated. The Land Rover jumped forward in response. “The yacht is just a way station for us, a secure position where we can get ready in private for the final move. The plane is owned by the same corporation that is providing the yacht.”

“Your General Middleton has some pull, huh? He trusts the civilian owners?” She looked quizzically at him and saw the flicker of a smile.