Stuart Woods - Mounting Fears

Todd was leaning out the window of the pickup, his pistol in his left hand, firing at the airplane as it pulled away from him. He emptied the magazine, and he had no idea if he had hit the thing.

Teddy reached the end of the island and kept going straight. He checked his fuel: both tanks were at three-quarters, and he had some in the ferry tank, too. He flew straight down the coast at five hundred feet, passing Fernandina Beach and Amelia Island. When his GPS told him he was thirty miles from Cumberland Island and well out of sight of the pickup, he went to the flight-plan page of the GPS and tapped in the code for a little airstrip he knew in the Bahamas. Then he descended to around twenty feet, set the altitude hold on his autopilot and the navigate button, and took his hands off the yoke.

He had over two hundred miles to go, but he had the fuel, and if he didn’t turn up on somebody’s look-down radar, he would be fine.

Todd Bacon stood on the beach beside the pickup and watched the airplane disappear to the south. Then he reloaded his pistol, got out his BlackBerry, and dialed a number.

Teddy was an hour from the coast, with another hour to go when he noticed that the right wing tank was nearly empty. He looked out the right window and saw what appeared to be smoke trailing from the wing; it was a mist of fuel. The son of a bitch had gotten lucky and hit a tank, and a quick calculation told him it was unlikely that he would make the Bahamas. And he had no life raft aboard.

Lance Cabot was walking into his office when he heard the characteristic ring of his direct telephone line. He picked it up. “Yes?”

“It’s Bacon,” a voice said. “Scramble.”

Lance pressed the Scramble button. “I’m scrambled. What’s up?”

“I’m in Georgia,” Todd said.

Lance’s jaw dropped. “What the hell are you doing in Eastern Europe?”

“Not that Georgia, the other one, the one in the United States.”

“Same question,” Lance said, feeling his gorge rise, “and your answer better be good.”

“I’m at a place called Cumberland Island,” Todd said. “I pursued Teddy Fay here.”

“What?”

“I figured out where he was going and what he was going to do when he got there, so I followed.”

“You followed him back to the United States?”

“Yes. I figured out that he was in Atlanta or nearby and that he was going to assassinate the Reverend Henry King Johnson. Do you know who that is?”

“Of course I know who he is,” Lance snapped.

“Teddy has mostly killed right-wing political figures, but he figured Johnson was a threat to the president’s reelection. After killing Owen, he had to get out of Panama, so he went to Atlanta.”

“Todd, Teddy Fay is dead, and I don’t want you ever to mention his name to me or anyone else again. Is that clear?”

“No, he’s not dead. I saw him less than five minutes ago.”

Lance was speechless.

“You’d better let me tell you what’s happened, because I think you need to know about it before it hits the papers. Teddy tried to blow up a little church on this island where Johnson was scheduled to perform a wedding ceremony. He placed a propane tank with a detonator on it under the church, but I managed to find it and disable it before it went off. I pursued Teddy to the beach, where he had an airplane. I tried to stop him, but he managed to get the thing in the air and flew south.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Lance said.

“I was unable to see the registration number, but it was a Cessna 182 RG, mostly white. I fired at it, emptied a magazine, but I don’t know if I hit it.”

Lance began to regain himself. “Now you listen to me very carefully, Todd,” he said.

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t know how you got to the States, but…”

“I chartered a small jet.”

“I don’t care about that. Your orders are to get your ass back to Panama City immediately, if not sooner, and to stay there. You are not to discuss where you’ve been with anyone, nor are you to mention any theories you might have about Teddy Fay. Do you understand my orders?”

“I suppose.”

“Well, you’d better do more than suppose, or you’re going to find yourself in a much less attractive station than Panama City and at a much lower salary level than you are now. That, or you’ll find yourself on the street, and I can promise you that the street will be an inhospitable place. Am I beginning to get through to you?”

There was a brief silence. “Yes, sir,” Todd replied. “I think I understand perfectly.”

“Good, and you’d better go on doing so. Was anyone hurt in the explosion?”

“No, sir. Everybody got out of the church safely, and the church was undamaged.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“One man, a black gentleman, who helped me a little.”

“You were never there, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“Twenty minutes, maybe half an hour.”

“Call me when you’re back in Panama City, and it had better be soon.” Lance hung up and thought for a moment. He turned to his computer and pulled up a classified list of every cell-phone number in the United States. He did a search and found one for Henry King Johnson, then dialed it, using an untraceable line.

The phone rang half a dozen times before it was answered. “Hello?” a deep, rich voice said.

“Mr. Johnson?”

“Yes? Who is this?”

“It’s very important that you not know,” Lance said. “In fact, this call never happened.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m aware that, a few minutes ago, you had a very close call.”

“How could you know that?”

“Have you called the local police yet?”

“No, but I’m certainly going to the moment I’m back in a place where there are police.”

“That would be very unwise,” Lance said.

“Are you insane?”

“Certainly not, but I must tell you that you are in no immediate danger. I must also tell you that, if you bring the police into this or if you continue to be a candidate, it will no longer be possible to protect you.”

“Protect me? Did you send the man who saved us from the bomb?”

“Suffice it to say that you were saved.”

Johnson was quiet for a moment. “Well, whoever you are, I thank you for that. What is it you want me to do?”

“Continue with the wedding, swear everyone present to secrecy, and forget this ever happened.”

“You want me to drop out of the race, don’t you?”

“I cannot tell you to do that. I can only tell you that you will be in very great danger if you continue. Now, I must say good-bye.” Lance hung up.

Martin Stanton was alone in his Scottsdale, Arizona, hotel suite, dressing for a campaign appearance, when his secret cell phone began ringing. He walked to his briefcase, hesitated, then picked it up. “Yes?”

“So Marty,” Barbara Ortega said, “how are things in Scottsdale? Getting hot out there?”

“It’s comfortably warm,” Stanton said warily.

“Well, it’s going to get a lot hotter,” Barbara said.

“What are you talking about?” Stanton asked.

“I thought I’d join you on the campaign trail.”

“Barbara…” Then he realized he had used her name and she had used his. “Baby, you’ve got to relax and get a grip.”

“I’ve got a grip, sweetheart, and I’m packing it as we speak.”

“Don’t do anything foolish, baby.”

“Oh, I don’t want to do anything foolish, I just want to do something, like tear her face off.”