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  With the handkerchief, Freddy picked up the journal, moved back to the ladder, and began climbing back up. For a moment, the thought that he would find the trapdoor closed brought on a brief bout of claustrophobic panic. But it was still open, exactly as he had left it.

  By the time he climbed out into the bedroom, it was clear that the flashlight batteries were dying. It was now hard to see more than a couple of feet to either side of the beam’s central bright spot. Well, that was okay. Only one more thing to check out, and then he’d be out of here.

  Freddy exited the house, walked out to his car, and gently placed the journal into his satchel along with the already exposed rolls of film. Then, grabbing a couple of fresh rolls, he began walking toward the spot where the decaying outbuildings stood. A crescent moon had risen and gave forth just enough light that he could make out the dark outline of the barn and what must have been a couple of storage sheds. Next to one of them, Freddy remembered seeing an old well.

  As he got closer, he found he didn’t need to be able to see it. The smell led him to it. In the dying light of the flashlight, Freddy could see the circular outline of the rock structure. The beam, which had once supported a pulley, rope, and bucket, lay to one side of the hole. The rope and bucket lay alongside it, the bottom of the latter having long since fallen out.

  Freddy leaned over the opening and shone the flashlight down. Shit. People should have been able to smell it all the way from Taos. The darkness swallowed the weak beam of light so that he could only see down the rough rock wall for about a dozen feet.

  He picked up a small rock and dropped it down, rewarded with the sound of it striking solid ground not far below. The thing couldn’t have been more than about thirty feet deep and, from the sound the stone had made, must have been dry for a long time now. These shallow wells usually relied on tapping into an underground aquifer that came close to the surface. Apparently, this one had changed course or died altogether.

  In his satchel back in the car, Freddy kept a small bottle of melaleuca oil. It was a great natural treatment for cuts, scratches, and bug bites, but it smelled like you had dunked your head in a Mentholatum jar. He walked back and retrieved it, swabbing some of the liquid just inside each nostril. Jesus. That would clear his sinuses. But he’d rather smell that than what was down at the bottom of the well.

  Making his way back to the well, Freddy bent down and began examining the old rope, finding it surprisingly strong. Although the beam supports had broken, the old log itself seemed stout enough. Securing one end of the rope to the log with an end-of-the-line bowline knot, he heaved it up so that it straddled the well. With his pocketknife, he cut the other end of the rope free from the bucket handle and tossed the rope into the well.

  “Here goes nothing,” he mumbled as he swung his legs over the side, taking a single wrap of the rope before swinging down, sliding into the blackness hand over hand.

  The thought occurred to him that he already had plenty for his story, more than enough to win a Pulitzer. Shit, if his story stopped what was going on at the Rho Project, he should get a God damn Nobel Prize. But Freddy was a reporter to his core. There was no way he could not look at and record what awaited him at the bottom of this hole, no more than he could hold his breath until he passed out.

  Except for one tense moment when the log shifted, his descent into the well was uneventful. The darkness pressed in around him like the stench. He could practically see the foul smell in the dim yellow beam of his flashlight. At a depth of twenty-five feet, he hit bottom, shuddering as he struggled to find a spot for his feet that didn’t involve stepping on a corpse.

  As dim as the light had become, he almost wished he didn’t have it. It soon became clear that most of the people had died because of the fall into this well, something that matched the journal’s descriptions. However, bloody marks high up along the walls indicated that one of the women had tried to climb out. As he examined the rough stone, Freddy determined that such a climb should have been possible, if she had still had fingers.

  Freddy bent to examine the corpses more closely. The fresher of the two male corpses must have been that of Abdul Aziz, although it was so badly decayed as to be unrecognizable. As he moved to the corpses of the women, he stopped. Fuck. He had wondered why the blood pattern around the sink in the basement hadn’t trailed out across the room and up through the house. Priest had tied them up, snipped their fingers in the sink, and then wrapped the stumps of their hands with Ziploc baggies and rubber bands before carrying them out.

  He had seen enough. Freddy began working his camera, forcing himself to remain in the hole until he could no longer stand it. Then, using his best high-school rope-climbing technique, he started the climb back toward the top. By tomorrow morning, he would be in Santa Fe, having already finished typing out the story on his old manual typewriter that waited in the trunk. Then a couple of faxes to people who still remembered his name at the New York Times and he would be back in the business for real.

  There would be no more Kansas shit kicking for Freddy Hagerman.

  18

  By the time the president's staff moved into action, every major news network was running with the story—hard. The look on the president's face as he stared across his desk at the chief of staff was not a happy one.

  "Damn it, Andy. What the hell is going on? I thought the FBI had this thing under control."

  "Yes, sir, that's what the director said."

  President Harris pointed at the flat-panel television screen. "Does that look like things are under control? Get him on the phone."

  "Yes, sir." The chief of staff turned and disappeared through the doorway.

  Within a minute, he returned. "Director Hammond is on the line now, sir."

  President Harris picked up the handset. "Bill, didn't you just brief me yesterday morning that you would soon have the Los Alamos situation back under control?"

  "Yes, Mr. President. We’re not sure that this news story is related to Jonathan Riles' rogue team that is still out there—"

  "Horseshit! That man Gregory has been orchestrating things since Admiral Riles committed suicide. He did the hit on the truck. Now he’s led a reporter to something that’s going to give us trouble."

  "I just don't think we can leap to that conclusion."

  The president's voice hardened. "Bill, you’re out of time. I want the rogue agents taken down. Now. Are the plans in place?"

  "Yes, sir. We identified Gregory's last three team members last night. We already have a joint FBI and ATF taskforce in place."

  "Good. As soon as they’re ready, do it. I want to be watching the evening news tonight and see the story of the takedown. Maybe it’ll get some of this other stuff off the air for a while."

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President. I’ll take care of it.”

  As soon as the FBI director had hung up, President Harris buzzed his secretary. "James, get Dr. Stephenson from Los Alamos National Laboratory on the phone. Tell him to make himself available by phone for my nine a.m. cabinet meeting. And yes, I know what time it is in New Mexico. Get him out of bed if you have to."

  "Yes, sir."

  Setting the phone back in its cradle, the president grabbed the remote control and turned up the volume on the news. He wanted to hear it all. In his experience, the old saying was dead on. Bad news certainly didn't improve with age.

  19

  Jack glanced in his rearview mirror. Traffic looked normal, but it felt wrong.

  As his eyes swept both sides of the street, he began picking them out, perfectly normal-looking people in perfectly normal-looking postures. But they weren't normal. They were part of an ongoing operation. He had been expecting this day for a long time now, and here it was.

  Jack hit speed dial on his cell phone. Out of service. He switched to walkie-talkie mode, but again got nothing. Someone was jamming him. Sloppy. If he hadn't already known the takedown was in progress, this would have confirmed it.

  Jack pressed a s
pecialized button on his cell phone, sending out a cross-frequency squelch signal. He paused then pressed it three more times in quick succession. The signal wouldn't have much range, but Janet would get it. The rest of the team would have to rely upon themselves.

  Ahead, on his left, was Fuller Lodge, the parking lot filled with cars. Jack gunned the engine, whipped the wheel hard, and tapped the brakes, sending the Audi sliding into a sideways skid, which ended as he floored the gas pedal once again. The car shot through a gap in traffic and into the Fuller Lodge driveway, leaving a smoking trail of rubber in its wake.

  Swerving left once more, Jack sent the car crashing through the front entryway, scattering glass and debris into the wedding crowd gathered inside. As people screamed, struggling to scramble out of the way, Jack brought the car to a sliding halt.

  He opened the car door and stepped out. Immediately, the handful of people in the crowd who had already recovered from the initial shock began moving angrily toward him. Three quick shots over their heads from his Beretta sent everyone scrambling away once again. He didn't want to kill them, but he needed their panic.

  Jack moved around to the trunk, popping it open to reach inside, grabbing a long case and the Kalashnikov rifle. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and moved to the stairs leading up to the loft, a mental count running through his head as he walked. If the team outside was Delta, he would have less than a minute before the lead elements of the assault team hit the entrances, perhaps as little as thirty seconds if they were really, really good. They wouldn't want to let him get temporal separation.

  Reaching the loft, Jack slapped a clip in the AK-47, partially snapped open a window, and secured the weapon to the frame with the strap so that it pointed down toward the edge of the parking lot. Working quickly, he flipped open the case, extracting a small device that looked like two opposing C-clamps.

  He picked up the remote control, pressed the button, and the small device expanded slightly, pushing the ends further apart and then letting them pop back together. Satisfied, Jack popped the thing over the Kalashnikov’s trigger. Grabbing the case, Jack paused at the door and pressed the button again. The noise of the AK-47 firing shook the room. Not only was the weapon reliable, it was very loud, and right now he wanted that volume.

  On his way back to the first floor, Jack remotely fired the rifle two more times. It didn't matter that it wasn't aimed at anything in particular. The firing would draw his enemies like moths to a flame.

  As he moved down the stairs, Jack extracted the pieces of the sniper rifle from the long case, snapping them together in rapid sequence. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, the assembly was complete and he flung the empty case to the side.

  He squeezed the remote control three more times, sending the booming echo of gunfire cascading across the parking lot. This time it was answered by a staccato smattering of gunfire that quickly died out.

  Jack shook his head. That wasn't Delta out there. It was someone more concerned about limiting civilian casualties than with immediately taking him down, no matter the cost. Well, they had forced his hand. Squeezing off two more rounds from the weapon upstairs, he moved back toward the people huddled at the far corner of the hall.

  His voice thundered through the large room. "Everyone! Get out of here and into the parking lot. Now!"

  With no need for additional encouragement, the panicked crowd raced toward the front exit. As they did, Jack slid unnoticed out the back.

  20

  Janet walked to the flashing alarm, reached out, and switched it off. Okay. So it all came down to now. That was Jack’s signal, the thing they’d been awaiting for weeks.

  She walked into the kitchen, opened the freezer, and extracted two plastic baggies, one filled with one-inch meatballs and another that held three frozen syringes of blood. Making her way around the corner and up the stairs, Janet pulled the cord hanging from the hallway ceiling and climbed the steps into the attic. The computers and SATCOM equipment sat where they had since Admiral Riles had been killed, unused since the team had been cut off from any external support. Moving rapidly from system to system, Janet removed the hard disks and memory units, setting them in a pile around a pre-wired detonation device attached to a white phosphorous grenade. She smiled. Good old Willy Pete, as they had called it before her day, back in Vietnam. It burned so hot that almost nothing could put it out.

  Within a minute, she was done and moving back down the steps to the second floor. In the office, she retrieved the ultra-thin laptop and placed it in her backpack along with the two freezer baggies. Then she opened the locker, grabbed the bulletproof vest and an M95 military protective mask, and slid into both.

  Next, she retrieved a pair of green M-57 firing devices, more commonly known as “clackers” because of the sound they made when squeezed. These babies would produce the electrical signals that would set off the No. 2 blasting caps on the Claymore mines. And each of those lads had seven hundred little ten-and-a-half-grain steel spheres backed by a pound and a half of C4 plastic explosive. Soon enough, like the ancient Scottish broadsword from which they drew their name, the two Claymores downstairs and the daisy chain of four out back would cut her a path out of here.

  Having completed these preparations, she retrieved one last toy, the Israeli Uzi 9mm submachine gun, stuffing several ammunition clips into her backpack. The Uzi wasn’t a Jack type of weapon, but she loved it. It was light, compact, and packed a hell of a punch. Somehow, cradled in her arms, it just felt right.

  Janet walked to the inside corner of the room and slid down the wall until she was seated with her back pressed up against the corner. Her fingers found the twin pairs of wires that had been secured to the wall along the baseboard with a staple gun. A quick tug popped enough of the staples to give her the slack she needed. Then, a couple of quick twists of the bare leads fastened them to the connectors on each clacker.

  Settling back, she could feel the click of the valve in the filter canister as she breathed in and out through the mask. It felt a bit claustrophobic, but she had felt that before. She just had to slow her breathing and follow the plan that Jack had laid out. The hit team would expect her to run if she was warned. If she didn’t run, they would assume she could be taken by surprise. She just had to wait for them to come to her. And that probably wouldn’t happen until they thought they already had Jack under control.

  And so she sat there, grasping the clackers and her Uzi, waiting for the reckoning that was coming. If they thought they had Jack, they were in for an unpleasant surprise. Inside the clear faceplate of her gas mask, Janet smiled.

  21

  "You've lost containment. Shut the operation down now."

  Darnell Freeman spun to face Garfield Kromly. "Shut the fuck up. This is an FBI operation, and I will be making all the operational decisions."

  But Kromly persisted. "Look, Freeman, just have your team back off temporarily to regroup. We want Jack, but only on our terms."

  "We have him cornered now, and I am damn sure not backing off just because he started running before he got all the way to the preplanned kill zone. In a few more minutes, the taskforce will have moved to surround Fuller Lodge. In the meantime, he is pinned down on the second floor, shooting wildly."

  Kromly stepped in close, his eyes ablaze. "Listen to me, for God's sake. Gregory doesn't shoot wildly. Something is drastically wrong in there."

  Freeman turned his back on Kromly, facing toward the situational displays and communications equipment that filled one corner of the taskforce command center. He keyed the mike on the command radio.

  "Gibson. What's your ETA?"

  The speakers crackled. "We should have everyone in position in about two more minutes."

  "Good. As soon as you do, have Alpha team sweep around the left flank and cover the back side of the lodge. Let Bravo and Charlie teams cover the front and right."

  There was a pause on the other end of the radio.

  Freeman keyed the mike
again. "Gibson, did you copy that last transmission?"

  "Shit. Something new is happening. I have a couple hundred civilians running out the front door."

  "God damn it. He'll be mixed in with them. Get them directed to a holding area."

  "No way. We're still taking fire from the second floor window. All the civies are scattering like wild rabbits. I think a couple of them are down."

  Freeman cursed then keyed the mike again. "If he's firing, then he's on the second floor. Put some suppressive fire into that room."

  "What if he has hostages up there?"

  "God damn it, Gibson! He's shooting into a crowd of people. Put some suppressive fire up there and then take him down as soon as you have all the teams in position."

  "Roger."

  Freeman slammed down the microphone to stare at the situational displays. The green dots indicated the GPS position of every member of the taskforce. The last of Charlie team had just made their way into position for the assault, having had the farthest to travel from where they had been prepositioned at the planned takedown location.

  The other radios in the room were filled with chatter, monitoring the inter-team tactical communications from Fuller Lodge. Now they had new problems. A host of squad cars from the Los Alamos Police Department had arrived on the scene and his teams were having to expend resources to keep them out of the way. Although advance coordination had been made with the local authorities, it had not included this unexpected detour into a wedding ceremony at Fuller Lodge.

  A quick glance at his watch told Freeman more than he wanted to know about how things were going. They were almost eight minutes into the operation and still hadn't really gotten things started. Jesus, what a cluster fuck. The thought of what Kromly had said crossed his mind, but he angrily dismissed it a second time. Too late for that now.