David Morrell - The naked edge

"Personal resources?" Cavanaugh seemed not to understand.

"Your Jackson Hole property," William said. "Because the government owns most of the valley and only four percent is available for private ownership, the area's land values keep surging. Even without a structure on it, your ranch is worth several million dollars."

Cavanaugh exhaled in what was nearly a gasp, not because of the worth of his home but because he suddenly realized how threatened he was. "Carl tried to kill us. He burned our home. He destroyed my business. Because of him, we'll probably go to prison, which means I'll lose my security status."

"Don't assume you're going to prison," William said. "Mosely arrested you because he's in line to be the Bureau's director. By refusing to ignore the laws you broke, he shows he can't be influenced, doesn't play favorites, or make exceptions. But a lot of people are on your side. Here are copies of as many national newspapers as I could find. USA Today, The Washington Post, The New York Times. You're on the front pages and, more important, the op-ed pages, where you're favorably presented as preventing an even greater disaster. You're the topic of every talk show. Every network called, asking for an interview."

"Hard to do an interview when we're in custody," Cavanaugh said, "not to mention, protectors shouldn't put their faces on national television programs. Removes our effectiveness, don't you think? Assuming we're ever allowed to work again."

"The point is, a lot of people understand the difficult choice you had to make."

"What matters is what the court thinks," Jamie said.

"What a jury thinks. Lester Beauchamp's on his way back from Europe. He's extremely persuasive. I believe there's a good chance you'll be exonerated."

"When? The trial might not happen for a year."

William's cell phone rang.

"One moment." He pulled the phone from his pocket and raised it to his ear. "William Faraday." He listened. "Yes." He listened further. "Yes." He concentrated. "That's very generous of you… I agree-if things had gone the other way, you wouldn't have had the opportunity to be generous. You'll make the arrangements?… Thank you."

William lowered his phone. "In the vernacular, it looks as if you'll be sprung."

"What happened?"

"Do you know someone named Mr. Yamato?"

"He's one of the leaders of the World Trade Organization. I tried to persuade him to stop the conference. I was with him in his hotel suite when the tear-gas and smoke bombs went off."

"He credits you with saving his life and those of the other delegates if the conference had occurred." William's smile showcased his perfectly capped teeth. "I hope it's a sign of the outcome of your legal trouble that he persuaded the World Trade Organization to post your bail."

Cavanaugh would have been speechless, except for the need to ask the most important thing on his mind.

"Has anybody figured out where the hell Carl is?"

The river was cold. Gritty. Greasy. Submerged in the weight of the muddy water, Carl heard the muffled vibrations of engines. He kept kicking with his heavy shoes, in too great a hurry to take the time to stop his momentum, unlace them, and push them off. He had no doubt that Aaron was close behind him, possibly already in the water, thrusting after him. Kick! he ordered himself. Claw at the water! Swim harder! Faster! After chasing Raoul, killing him, and rushing to get away from Aaron, Carl felt that his lungs were strained to their capacity. His chest ached with the desperate need to take in oxygen.

No! I won't give up! I won't let Aaron win!

He swept his arms with greater determination, surging through the mucky water, feeling the current add to his momentum. Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, he mentally counted. He had to swim as far and fast as possible. Sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two. His mind spun. Even with his eyes closed, he saw swirling spots. Seventy-one. I once swam underwater for a minute and forty-five seconds, he reminded himself. Aaron saw me do it. He knows how strong I am, how far I can…

Carl's body took control of his mind. No matter how fiercely he willed his lungs not to do it, they insisted on inhaling.

Frantic, the vibrations around him even louder, he propelled himself upward, taking in water, coughing as he broke the surface. A barge sped close, threatening to strike him. Instantly, he took a breath and dove, kicking, aiming toward the opposite shore. He had to surface one more time, breathe, and submerge again. Then his sweeping arms touched silt, and he raised his head slightly from the river, blinking filthy water from his eyes, wanting to cheer when he saw boats against the shore. A wharf. See, Aaron, I can still do it!

But there were too many people on the shore, too many chances of being noticed. Word of the attack in the downtown area would travel fast. A man seen crawling from the river would attract so much attention that the police would be alerted. They might corner him before he could find a hiding place. Better to stay where he was, under the dock, behind its pilings, close to the shore, where no one would notice him. A helicopter thundered overhead. A Coast Guard boat roared past. He held his breath and slipped underwater.

After dark, as voices and rumbling footsteps faded from the wharf, he eased past a piling, listened harder, studied the few details he could see above him, and climbed a dirt embankment, squirming into shadowy bushes. Seeing nothing to alarm him, he crept past a warehouse. He worried about the trail of water he left, but gradually it lessened as a night breeze dried his clothes. He hugged his chest, shivering. Then he heard voices and ducked behind a Dumpster bin. When the voices receded, he skirted the glare of lights, creeping deeper into whatever gloom he could find, craving darkness.

By one a.m., his clothes were dry enough for him to be inconspicuous enough to emerge onto a street. His cropped hair looked the same as before it had gotten wet. Granted, he was dirty and had an earthy smell from the river, but he appeared no different from many homeless people he passed. He bought peppermint-flavored brandy from an all-night liquor store. He approached an alley, where several ragged men lay against a wall. When he sank next to them, they made fists.

"This place is ours!"

"Here. I'm too sick to drink this."

He handed the brandy to the most aggressive man. After the leader got his share, the others shoved at each other, grabbing for the bottle.

Meanwhile, Carl found a space far into the alley, next to garbage cans. With his back and side protected, he gripped his knife under his shirt, his pistol having been lost in the river. He watched his companions warily until they finished the bottle and sank against a wall. Eventually, he allowed himself to doze, although several noises woke him in the night.

Plenty of time to think. During the progress of the mission, he'd accepted two payments of five hundred thousand dollars each, with a promise of another million when the assignment was completed. That did not include the considerable expense that his employers had paid for him to set up the camp, fly across the country to recruit trainees, and bring the team to New Orleans. The receipts he'd presented to his employers were detailed and accurate. After all, he was a principled man, although even if he'd been tempted to cheat them, these people were far too scary for him to risk it. But in round numbers, the cost to his employers for two years of planning and execution was three million dollars, and that did not include his two-million-dollar fee. Serious money, even for a group that got much of its funding from the narcotics trade. Several times, his employers warned him that their investment had better pay off. He'd given them repeated assurances, pointing to the progress he had made.