Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Rogue

“So what’s your plan?”

“We’re heading for Denville. Call the local police department and tell them we’ll be dropping off a high-value suspect. We’ll deliver Ferguson and the recording of his confession. They can hold him until your people are able to collect him.”

“And you?”

“It’s better you don’t know, Mr. Secretary,” I replied. “I can tell you we recovered Joshua Floyd. When the time comes, he’ll have some interesting testimony.”

“Are you planning trouble, Jack?” Carver asked.

I hesitated. “Like I say, it’s better you don’t know, Mr. Secretary.”

“Is this going to be one of those conversations I need to deny ever having had?”

I stayed silent.

“Well, thank you anyway, Jack,” he said.

“We’ll speak soon, Mr. Secretary,” I responded before hanging up.

“Denville?” Justine asked.

“It’s a small police department. I don’t think Carver will ask them to try to hold us, but just in case he does, I picked somewhere the odds would be in our favor.”

“And I thought I was paranoid,” Floyd observed.

“The word you’re looking for is careful,” I replied with a smile.

We climbed into the chopper and within minutes the ground was falling away as I took us skyward.

Beth had managed to calm the children and get them to sleep. There were three cots arranged against the back wall of the barn, away from the space where she’d been tortured. She dragged two of the army surplus beds close together and positioned them so the children could sleep beside each other. While they lay there, whimpering and crying, she’d ignored her burning arms and stroked their hair, soothing them to sleep. The children gave her focus and purpose and stopped her from dwelling on the trauma she’d experienced.

When the children were deep asleep, Beth used a bucket of water and a small towel to clean herself up, and changed into some old jeans and a gray sweater that just about fit her. The sweater was moth-eaten and ragged, but it kept the chill at bay.

She explored the barn, which was about the size of two tennis courts. Above her head, struts ran between the walls and supported the A-frame steel roof. She checked the walls: corrugated steel that ran beneath the concrete floor line. The only door was a huge solid steel double gate that was designed for vehicle access. She tried the catch and found it was locked.

“Don’t waste your time,” a voice yelled from the other side.

She and the children were being guarded, which meant an escape through the front door would be unlikely to succeed. Beth looked around and her eyes settled on the pipe she’d been suspended from. About three inches in diameter, it came down from the roof about ten feet away from the door and ran the length of the barn, before disappearing through the back wall. Smaller pipes ran off it at regular intervals and were capped by sprinklers. A fire system perhaps? Or a way of feeding animals? Either way, the central pipe was sufficiently thick to make a good weapon.

Beth hurried to the other end of the barn. Ignoring the pain in her arms, she lifted her cot as quietly as possible. The children stirred, but didn’t wake.

She carried the cot to a point where the pipe connected to one of the sprinklers, and set it down directly beneath the roughly welded joint. She fought her aching body, stepped onto the cot, reached up for the pipe and got to work.

We hadn’t needed to worry about the cops in Denville. I set the chopper down on the baseball field next to the police department and three officers emerged from the building. I powered down the engine and Justine, Floyd and I climbed out to meet the officers. The leader of the trio, a gruff middle-aged sergeant, said they’d been waiting for us after receiving a call from the Pentagon. They’d been instructed to hold a man who was about to be delivered to them.

“We’ve been trying to guess what kind of perp gets the royal treatment,” the sergeant asked. “You got bin Laden’s brother in there or something?”

“We’ve got a traitor,” I replied. “A man who sold out this country. Make sure you lock him up tight.”

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed and his mood soured. “Ain’t nothing lower than treason.”

The officers dragged Rick Ferguson from the chopper and watched as we took to the sky.

I flew north for thirty minutes, heading deep into the Catskill Mountains. Below us, the bumps in the snow-covered terrain became large distinct folds, and the mountains soared as we flew deeper into the remote wilderness. Narrow roads and tracks criss-crossed the landscape. Floyd knew every landmark and directed me farther and farther into the mountains. Finally, a few miles north of Rondout Reservoir and Sundown Forest, he pointed to a clearing that I could just about make out in the faint moonlight.

“Set us down there,” he said.

I circled round and began my descent.

“What’s down there?” I asked.

Floyd had been cagey about our destination so far.

“Beth and I had a go-to place in case she and the kids ever needed to lie low,” he replied. “Somewhere they’d be safe if I was ever captured. At least, it was supposed to be.”

“But you have another one?” I guessed.

And when I looked down, to the north of the clearing I saw hints of a structure through the snow-covered trees.

Floyd nodded. “Like you said, it isn’t paranoia. It’s about being careful.”

The clearing wasn’t much bigger than a baseball diamond. I took us down slowly. When we were on the ground, I powered down the H125 and we stepped out into the brutal chill of a Catskill winter’s night.

“I bought this place using a dummy corporation a few years back,” Floyd said as we trudged through the snow. “Land here is cheap. Picked up most of this side of the mountain and the cabin. It’s somewhere we can come if things ever go real bad.”

He took us through a gap in the trees and we followed a trail north of the clearing. I saw a small cabin ahead, tucked almost out of sight. It was the kind of place someone could disappear.

“What do you think they’re after?” Justine asked.

“Three months ago, I flew a team into Belarus. We were tasked with stealing data and documents from the home of Konstantin Roslov, a Russian SVR operative who was believed to be coordinating operations across Europe.”

“And?” I asked, the word hanging before me in a cloud as I exhaled.

“I went in with the team, probably shouldn’t have,” Floyd replied. “But Roslov wasn’t there and the place was empty, so it was a safe target. We were under orders to make it look like a random burglary. So I took something.”

“Spoils of war,” I remarked.

Floyd nodded. “It’s in this cabin,” he said, pointing toward the tiny building.

Trees towered over it, with trunks like the legs of giants tightly packed as far as the eye could see. Shutters covered the cabin windows. Floyd pulled back a panel by the front door to reveal a key safe. He rolled the tumblers, opened the safe and pulled out two keys. He used them to unlock the front door and let us in.

He picked up a battery-operated lamp and switched it on. We walked through a small hallway into a rustic living room. A couple of couches covered in blankets faced a large fireplace, and historical military paintings hung on the wood-paneled walls. Floyd went to a sideboard that was covered in trophies and mementos and picked up a brass statue, a small bronze replica of the Charging Bull that graces Wall Street. About ten inches long and six high, the figure was a perfect scale copy of the famous original, which symbolizes a strong financial market on the rise. The original figure, by Arturo Di Modica, is known the world over.