Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

“That’s right.”

“Don’t try to be a hero. You and Kyle Swanson did enough of that at the bridge in Pakistan.”

“OK. I understand. Who is this?” Someone got into a taxi, and the line moved forward. She shuffled along with it.

“I have been trying to find you for some time, but you and Swanson are quite elusive. Now do you know who I am? Do not say my name out loud.”

Undersecretary Curtis had rejoined the game, despite being the most hunted man in America. “Yes. I know.”

“Good. Then follow my instructions, and do not vary at all, because there will be no second chance for mommy dearest. For now, proceed to your reserved room at the Hacienda Hotel in Old Town. Do not contact law enforcement. I’ll call you there and give you more directions.”

“Let me speak—”

“You want to hear her? Listen.” There was the startling sound of a loud slap, followed by a woman’s scream. “Did you hear that well enough, bitch? Don’t even try to think you’re going to control this situation. I will call you at the hotel.”

The connection was broken, and Beth Ledford just stood there momentarily, staring straight ahead, listening to the buzz, before folding it up and putting it away. She stepped out of the taxi line and moved to a quieter zone, thinking hard while the tango girls sang low about how the men they had murdered had it comin’ and only had themselves to blame.

Well, Mr. Curtis, you should be careful of what you wish for, because you might get it. Lay a finger on my mother and your worst dream will come true. She made a decision. As a matter of fact, that nightmare will come true anyway. Beth rummaged around in her purse and found the slightly bigger, more complex, and totally secure cell phone that Trident had issued her, scrolled to the frequent numbers, and hit the SEND button.

It was late morning on Range 400 at the sprawling Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center in 29 Palms, and Kyle Swanson lay sprawled on his belly, slowly taking in the slack of the trigger, bringing it straight back. The big Excalibur was resting on a bipod, trailing lines of wires that linked it to sensitive computer-monitored data collection gear lined up on a small table. Seated in a chair was J. Horace “Verify” Wellington, a short, bespectacled man buttoned up in a scientist’s white frock coat, with thick earmuffs to protect his hearing. He looked like a clockmaker, had never served in the military, and still was recognized as the best gunsmith in Great Britain. In the old days of swords, a blade forged of Birmingham steel was considered the ultimate weapon. In the modern day, a rifle bearing Wellington’s imprint had the same value. He was called “Verify” because he tested and retested and retested before clearing anything on which he worked. The Excalibur 3GX had not yet earned his stamp of approval, although he had been on the project from the start.

“Ready,” said Swanson.

“You may fire,” replied Verify Wellington, and Kyle finished the trigger pull. The big gun bucked with a burst of high energy as it spat a .50 caliber round downrange. Swanson took the big recoil but did not reposition the gun. Instead, he moved away as Wellington approached with more measuring instruments.

Kyle removed his soft utilities cap and wiped his brow. He had chosen Range 400 on a weekend when there were not too many other people about, but had to piggyback on a previously scheduled live-fire exercise. Rifles, heavy machine guns, and mortars all banged away at targets.

Private Jerry Hubbard punched an elbow into Private K’Shan Lincoln. “Hey, K, ain’t that the Ghost over there?”

Lincoln squinted. “I think so. Look at the freakin’ gun he’s got.”

“Holy shit, dude, did you hear the sound of that thing? Sounded like a cannon!”

“Let’s go say hello. The LT won’t mind, and we’re on a ten-minute break anyway.”

The two young Marines moved before they had second thoughts and trotted the twenty-five yards to where Kyle Swanson was watching Verify do his thing. They stopped, came to attention, and gave sharp salutes. “Gunny Swanson? Privates Lincoln and Hubbard, sir.”

Swanson returned the salute. “Don’t call me sir, privates, I work for a living. And I don’t like being saluted.”

“Aw, c’mon, Gunny; you’re a living Medal of Honor winner. Even the commandant has to salute you.” Lincoln smiled broadly. “Wow, man, this is an honor.”

Kyle had won the nation’s highest award for bravery by saving General Middleton from terrorists in Syria, but Middleton insisted that Kyle was just lucky—it was an accident of fate, and he had been about to escape all by himself when the sniper showed up and ruined everything. The general knew that wasn’t the way it happened, of course, but he felt bound to needle Swanson at every opportunity.

The Medal could at times be a heavy weight to carry, and Swanson felt a duty to play the role when necessary. This was one of those times that he had to be an ambassador, take the opportunity to teach some young Marines about respect and the meaning of the Corps. They were good kids, and since Verify was still probing and measuring and taking barrel temperatures, Swanson walked with them back to their group, shook hands all around, and talked for a while about the big Excalibur without revealing its secrets. They would have to graduate from Scout Sniper School before they could ever touch that weapon.

When his cell phone rang, he gave them a wave and a Semper Fi and went back to his position. He recognized the number. “Beth,” he said. “Wassup?”

Bill Curtis checked Margaret Ledford’s bindings once again. A strip of silver duct tape covered her mouth, and flex-ties were on her ankles and wrists. “Sorry about the slap, but I had to make sure that your daughter understood that I was serious,” he said.

It had not been difficult to take her as a hostage. A knock on the door of the big red-roofed hotel in Old Town that morning, a pistol jammed into her ribs, and a quick trot to the van in the upper parking garage. No one noticed them. Finding a truly isolated area was just as easy, for Californians hugged the coast, paying to get as close to the Pacific Ocean as they could afford. He drove up to Carlsbad, then bent inland twenty miles, and he was soon parked off of a twisting side road in the dry mountains, beside a forgotten grove of gnarled manzanita trees.

“Now let’s get you all set up,” he said and pulled a green tarpaulin from a large cardboard box. “I fixed all of this yesterday, Margaret, just for you and your pesky daughter. Got the vests from a sports equipment store. The stitching is a little rough, I admit, but an old construction hand like me never forgets how to handle dynamite.”

Her eyes grew wide in terror, and she struggled against the restraints as she recognized what she was seeing. The man was going to wrap her in a vest of explosives.

“I figured you were both about the same size, small, so that made things easier. See? Matching outfits.” Curtis opened the van door and pulled her outside, then cut the flex-cuffs, forced her arms into the vest, and put new plastic ties on her wrists. “Be still! Don’t make me slap you again, and there is no one around to hear you scream.” With a few more moves, he secured the vest tightly. Sticks of bound dynamite covered the back, the wiring was in the generous pockets, and a detonator was on her right shoulder. He put her back into the van and removed the tape from her mouth only long enough to give her some water.

Curtis climbed into the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition, and flipped the air-conditioning on high. It was noon, and the August temperature was climbing in the open chaparral country. “OK. Let’s go pick up Beth now.”