He knew what to do.
Knew with every fiber in his body. With all his disappointment.
Exactly what he must do to retrieve himself.
Without warning, he crawled quickly out from under the RV, surged to his feet, and with a sharp guttural sound charged straight toward where the attackers crouched at the edge of the woods. The Doberman followed.
“Bill!” Jon shouted. “Don’t—”
But it was too late. The stocky man’s legs pumped and his long hair flew behind as he pounded toward the trees, firing his Glock. He was excited and immensely relieved, and he did not give a damn anymore about anything but redeeming himself. With bared fangs, the Doberman sprang toward one of the attackers on Bill’s left.
Jon, Randi, and Peter leaped out with their weapons to follow. It was over in seconds.
By the time Jon reached him, Bill Griffin lay on his back on dry weeds at the edge of the woods. Blood bubbled up from his chest.
“Jesus,” Peter breathed as his canny gaze swept the trees and RVs, looking for more trouble.
Ten feet away the short, heavy man who had led the attack on Jon in Georgetown that first day was crumpled in a lifeless heap. A second man lay dead of a gunshot to his head. A third man had sprawled back, his throat torn open, while the Doberman paced the woods in search of others.
“No sign of the man Bill called al-Hassan,” Peter noted quickly. “He could still be out front.”
“If he’s alone, he probably won’t try anything by himself,” Randi agreed, her Uzi ready. Her voice softened and she looked down. “How is he, Jon?”
“Help me.”
As Peter stood watch, his H&K fanning all around, Randi helped Jon carry Griffin into the shelter of the trees, where they laid him on a bed of dry leaves.
“Hold on, Bill.” His throat tight, Jon crouched down. He tried to smile at his old friend.
Peter backed up to join them in the forest, holding his position as sentry.
Jon’s voice was gentle. “Bill, you damn fool. What were you thinking? We could’ve handled them.”
“You… don’t know that for sure.” He tugged Jon down by the collar. “This time… you could’ve got yourself killed. Al-Hassan is out there… somewhere. Waiting for reinforcements. Leave… get out of here!”
His grip was strong, but then pink foam appeared on his lips.
“Take it easy, Bill. I’m just going to take a look at your wounds. We’ll be fine—”
“Bullshit.” Griffin gave a weak smile. “Go to the lodge… Lake Magua. Horrible… horrible—” His eyes closed, and he breathed shallowly.
“Don’t talk,” Jon said anxiously as he ripped open Bill’s shirt.
His eyes opened. “No time… Sorry about Sophia… Sorry for everything.” His eyes widened as if seeing into a vast darkness.
“Bill? Bill! Don’t do this!”
His neck went limp, and his head dropped back. In death, the bland face seemed suddenly younger, somehow more innocent. The features that had so easily fit into so many different roles smoothed out to show a strong bone structure with definite cheekbones and chin. As Jon looked numbly down, somewhere a bird began to sing. Insects hummed. The sunlight through the trees was warm.
Smith went into action. He felt the carotid artery. Nothing. Frantically, he put his hand on the bloody chest. But there was not even a whisper of a beat. He sat back, crouching next to his friend. Pain swept through him. First Sophia and now Bill.
Suddenly the Doberman appeared. He stood over Bill, guarding him. He nudged Bill’s head and made what sounded like a low moan in his throat. Marty murmured something and stroked the Doberman’s back.
Smith closed Bill’s eyes and looked up. “He’s gone.”
“We’ve got to leave, Jon.” Peter’s voice was kind but definite. He handed him a colored kerchief from one of the webbed belt pouches on his commando uniform.
As Jon wiped blood from his hand, Randi said, “I’m sorry, Jon. I know he was your friend. But more of them will be here soon.”
When Smith did not get up immediately, Marty said, “Jon!” His voice was sharp. “Let’s go. You’re scaring me!”
Smith stood and gazed around at the battered RV and the dead bodies. He breathed deeply, controlling his grief and rage. He glanced once more at Bill Griffin.
Victor Tremont had a lot to answer for.
He moved into the woods. “We’ll work our way back to the car through here.”
“Good idea.” Randi took the lead.
“Come on, Samson,” Marty called.
The dog lifted his head. Then he nudged his dead master’s shoulder. He made a low sound in his throat again and prodded Bill one last time.
When there was no response, he gave a final look around as if saying good-bye. He trotted silently into the woods, following.
Randi’s long body angled left. With sure footsteps, she forged a path through the underbrush and around the trees. Jon and Marty came behind with Peter and the Doberman bringing up the rear. Peter’s H&K swept from side to side.
Jon looked at Marty. “You know anything about this `lodge’ Bill was talking about? Lake Magua?”
“It’s where they chained me in a room.”
“You know where it is?”
“Of course.”
Suddenly Peter’s voice sounded over their conversation. “Bogies at six o’clock. They’re coming after us. I’ll keep them busy. Go!”
“Not without you!” Smith refused.
“Don’t be stupid. You’ve got Tremont to finish off. I can take care of myself.”
At the sounds of feet approaching through the trees, the big Doberman stopped its loping trot and spun back to join Peter. He spoke low to the dog, then looked back at Smith.
“Go on. Now! Samson and I will cover your tails and buy you time. Hurry!” He gazed down at the dog. “You understand hand signals, boy?” He lowered his hand to his side and made a swift motion. Instantly the dog raced off into the woods to scout. Peter nodded, satisfied. “See, I won’t be alone.”
“He’s right,” Randi agreed. “It’s what Bill would’ve wanted.”
Jon was frozen for a second. His high-planed face with the dark blue eyes looked ominous in the shadowy forest. His long, muscular body was tensed, ready to spring. Bill had just died, and now Peter was volunteering to stay behind where his risk of being killed, too, was enormous. Jon had devoted himself to saving lives, not taking them. And now, because of circumstances, he was caught in what seemed a hopeless loop of death.
He studied Peter’s wrinkled, weathered face and the sharp eyes that had one message: Go. Leave me alone. This is what I do.
Smith nodded. “Okay. Marty, you follow me. Good luck, Peter.”
“Right.” Already the Englishman had turned, his gaze searching the forest behind as if his whole life were focused on this moment.
Jon stared a second longer. Then he, Marty, and Randi sped away through the timber. Behind them a long burst of gunfire sounded, followed by a cry of pain.
“Peter?” Marty’s voice rose with worry. “Do you think he’s hurt? Maybe we should go back?”
“It was his H&K’s fire,” Jon assured him, although he was not sure.
Marty nodded uncertainly, remembering the endless days of too-close contact in the RV and Peter’s tart humor and irritating habits. “I hope you’re right. I… I’ve grown to like Peter.”
Grimly they continued on. The woods were quiet now, shocked as sporadic gunfire sounded. Each shot seemed to pierce Smith to the quick. Then there was silence. That was worse. Peter could be lying in his own blood somewhere, dying.
At last they emerged on a quiet residential street that paralleled Route 5. Grave and wary, they hid their weapons inside their clothes, trotted right, and turned onto the street where Jon and Randi had parked their rented car under the maple tree.
They split up and approached the car cautiously.
But no one was around, and no one tried to stop them. Marty heaved a sigh and climbed into the backseat. Jon slid into the driver’s seat, Randi jumped into the front passenger seat, the mini-Uzi on her lap, and they headed for the Thruway. An hour later they arrived at the Oriskany-Utica airport, where they rented a light plane and flew into the vast wilderness of Adirondack State Park.
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CHAPTER
FORTY THREE
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3:02 P.M.
Lake Magua, New York
Victor Tremont’s timbered lodge loomed enormous through the trees below. Here at the back of it, a narrow brick drive led from an oversize timbered garage deep among the trees. Three heavily armed men patrolled. On the far side of the lodge a pristine lake was nestled in the forest of pine and hardwood trees. Large white clouds hovered above, and the long light of the late-afternoon sun cast dark shadows across the wooded slopes.
Taking it all in from a rise in the forest behind the lodge were Jon, Randi, and Marty. They lay on their stomachs on the thick carpet of duff under dense pines as they carefully analyzed the lodge’s layout and the bored actions of the trio of guards.