Steven Gore - Final Target

Gage looked at his watch. The banking day in Geneva was over and the KTMG account was empty. “Nope.”

At 3 P. M. Gage turned off the main highway onto a two lane gray-top that quickly dwindled to one, then became dirt and gravel for the last six miles toward Hat Creek in Northern California. The four-hour drive took Gage from sea level wetlands, then north along the Sacramento River, and finally east through scrub oak to pines and redwoods at forty-five hundred feet.

As Gage drove into the clearing, he saw Viz rocking in a chair on the front porch of the small, weathered wood cabin, a pump-action shotgun across his lap. His worn black Stetson rested low on his forehead and his eyes stared toward the river flowing almost silently fifty yards away. His head rotated to the right at the sound of Gage’s car rolling toward him. He stood up, waiting for Gage to park near an outbuilding, then walked down the steps to meet him.

Viz pointed at the semiautomatic in Gage’s shoulder holster. “I didn’t even know you owned one that big.”

“Spike loaned it to me for the occasion.” Gage looked around. “Where’s our little pal?”

“By the river.” Viz pretended to flinch. “Bark at him and I think he’ll start crying. He jumps every time a twig breaks. He thinks he went down there to watch the water, but he really just wants to hide from unexpected noises in the roar of the rapids. The only thing that’s keeping him together is the idea of Costa Rica.”

“Has he seen the news?”

“No. I told him the satellite dish was broken because I didn’t want him in my face all day.”

“It’s time to fix it.”

Gage walked down the pine-treed hill toward the meadow bordering the stream. He saw Matson, wearing a blue parka and slacks, sitting on a fallen tree, mechanically tossing pebbles into the whitewater rapids below him. Gage’s footfalls disappeared into the sounds of the river as he approached from behind.

“Matson!” Gage yelled at twice the decibels necessary to pierce through the roar.

Matson cringed, then peeked back over his shoulder. At the sight of Gage, his body slumped and he exhaled through puffed cheeks.

Gage jerked his thumb toward the cabin, then turned away and marched back. Matson, breathless, caught up at the stairs. They climbed the steps together and walked into the house. Gage pointed at a couch that faced the television off to the left and the fireplace directly in front. He then walked past the dining table to the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.

Matson hung his parka on the coatrack, then sat down on the edge of the couch, arms on his thighs, fingers interlinked. Gage measured out coarse ground coffee from a Folgers tin, filled the coffeemaker with water, and punched the switch. He then returned and took a seat in a matching recliner.

“This place okay?” Gage asked, looking over.

“Yeah. But it’s boring. No TV. Nothing.”

Matson’s eyes were sunken and bloodshot, his breathing still heavy from the hike up from the river.

“That’s getting fixed.”

“Did you get my money out?”

“No problem. I’ll give you the bank info once it gets all the way to Costa Rica.”

Matson nodded. “Thanks.” The word came out like a sigh.

Viz entered through the back door. “I think I solved the TV problem.” He set the shotgun in the gun cabinet along the wall to the left of the fireplace, then walked to the kitchen.

Gage grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned on the television. He skimmed the channels until he found CNN, and then set it down. The U.S. secretary of state was commenting on the opposition victory in the Ukrainian elections.

“How long do I need to stay here?” Matson asked, peering at Gage.

“Not long. You got anything you need to take care of? You won’t be coming back for a while.”

“No,” Matson said, looking like a dog abandoned at the pound.

“Does your wife know why you gotta go?”

“It doesn’t make any difference.” Matson stared vacantly at the television. “I’m not taking her.”

“You want I should send her a little money?”

“There’s a couple of million in equity in the house. She can sell it. I don’t care.”

Matson let his hands fall between his legs and exhaled.

Viz called over to Matson, “You take sugar in your coffee?”

Matson didn’t respond, eyes now riveted on the screen.

Gage saw the words “NATO reports Ukrainian missile explosion” tick along the bottom.

“I guess not,” Viz said.

Gage picked up the remote and switched the channel to ESPN.

“Turn it back,” Matson said, voice rising. “Turn it back, please.”

Gage returned to CNN.

“Cream?” Viz asked, pretending not to notice Matson’s bewilderment and terror.

Viz brought the cup into the living room and set it on the coffee table in front of Matson. He picked it up, seemingly more from habit than interest, hands shaking.

A grayscale photo appeared next to the right shoulder of the announcer. NATO released satellite images of three explosions at a Ukrainian missile testing facility on the Crimean peninsula.

Gage twisted the knife. “Since you’ve got a Ukrainian name on your passport, maybe you should pay attention to this one.”

The screen was filled by a succession of photos, each showing dark-edged gray blots of slightly different contours against the aerial view of a military installation.

After first denying the explosions, late today the Ukrainian Ministry of Defense acknowledged the mishap and reported that four observers were injured. CNN in Kiev confirmed that one of those injured was the son of the president of Ukraine. His condition is unknown. The president-elect has promised a full investigation.

Matson half rose from the couch, spilling his coffee as he set down the cup. “Shit!” He shook off the hot liquid from his hand. His face reddened as he hyperventilated and dropped back onto the couch, arms rigid on the cushions, as if trying to maintain his balance.

Gage glanced over Viz. “Bring him a paper bag.”

Viz brought one, snapped it open, then pushed it up against Matson’s face. Matson circled his hands around the top, then sucked air in and out, the bag collapsing, and then expanding with a pop.

Gage waited until Matson’s breathing began to slow, then got up and sat next to him on the edge of the couch.

“What’s going on?”

Matson pulled the bag away from his mouth. “I…” He gasped a final time. “I can’t talk about it.”

“You in some kind of trouble you haven’t told me about?”

Matson stared at the television, as if waiting for a bulletin that would grant him a reprieve.

Gage leaned back, then signaled with his head for Viz to return to the kitchen.

“If I was to put two and two together,” Gage said, “and I think you know what I’m talking about, I’d say those missiles were using SatTek video amplifiers.”

“There’s no proof that I-”

Gage raised his hand toward Matson. “I’m not saying there is. I’m just saying what you get when you add it up.”

Matson leaned back and began to chew on a fingernail.

Gage watched Matson trying to calculate his position. His deal with Peterson, blown. Alla’s gangster father maybe coming after him. Gravilov wanting an answer to why the missiles exploded. Hadeon Alexandervich, if he was still alive, wanting revenge against everyone.

“I deal a lot in missile technology,” Gage said. “Three explosions. Ukraine tests in three different ranges all at once. I would guess it’s probably not a hardware defect. That would be like lightning striking the same tree three times in a row.” Gage was making it up as he went along, wondering how easily Blanchard would cut holes in this fictionalized account of why missiles explode. “It would have to be the software. That’s my guess.”