McCracken let himself be swept into the corridor toward the elevator. Guns were poking into him. He was shoved up against the wall and his janitor’s uniform searched as the compartment began to lower toward the garage level. Blaine’s senses sharpened. He would try his escape once in the garage, probably when a number of the guards’ hands were occupied with the doors of a car. If luck was on his side and the garage was dark enough, he might make it.
The compartment’s doors slid open at the garage level. One of the blacks hung back by the elevator, while the others escorted Blaine forward through the dark underbelly of the PVR building. One of them moved beyond the pack to scout ahead. That left four — two on each side, all huge and well armed.
They reached a dark Oldsmobile sedan. Two of the men stayed with Blaine while two others went for the doors. If Blaine was going to move, this was the time.
At that instant the man on his right reeled backward, his chest spewing a fountain of red. A muffled sound like the echo of a single heel clicking against pavement found Blaine’s ears as he plunged to the garage floor out of what he realized now was someone’s line of fire. A second black collapsed near him, his face gone.
The remaining guards rushed around, screaming to each other, one struggling to free his walkie-talkie. A pair of long, silenced bursts came, followed by a shorter one. There was a pause, after which two more shorter bursts ensued. The last of the blacks crumpled to the floor near the elevator. Blaine heard the sound of shoes rushing in his direction and rolled closer to the body of the first guard who’d been downed. His gun was still clutched in his hand. McCracken was reaching for it just as a man dressed all in black and holding an Uzi huffed to a halt over him.
“We’re on the same side!” the man screamed, but his words didn’t convince Blaine as much as the fact that he let the Uzi dangle by his side.
Then McCracken saw his watch, its luminous face glowing a strange blue in the darkened corner. He recognized the glow from Newport. This was the man who had saved him there! He pulled his hand away from the dead guard’s pistol.
“I’ve got a car waiting,” the man said. “Come on!”
“Who are you?” Blaine managed as he rose to his feet.
“Everything will be explained to you in time. Right now we’ve got a plane to catch.”
Francis Dolorman had been in his bedroom stuffing a large suitcase full of clothes when the call from Wells came.
“You’re certain?” Dolorman asked after the big man had completed his report.
“Our rebels have grown desperate,” Wells said, “and their desperation has led to their exposure. The evidence is irrefutable. Several are in custody and the rest are known to have gathered at the site in question.”
“And our response?”
“Already in the works. Just a few more hours and we’ll be ready. Dawn at the latest.”
“None of them can be allowed to escape, Wells. Crush them all.”
“Consider it done.”
The long drive northwest toward Louisiana and Arkansas had proved an exercise in frustration for Sandy Lister. The late afternoon hours had grown into early evening, then night, and finally midnight had come and gone. She had tried questioning the man who had saved her life and was now driving without rest, but his answers were evasive when he bothered to respond at all. Finally he began ignoring her altogether. That had been at least five hours before, when they crossed into Louisiana. Sandy remembered specifically because that was when she had given up asking. She tried to sleep but came quickly awake each time. The drive with a mysterious stranger who had saved her life was too unsettling to close her eyes to.
The brush with death was bad enough, never mind that it had come at the hands of a man she trusted. But Stephen Shay had probably belonged to Krayman all along. When one of his people had stepped severely out of line, it had become Shay’s responsibility to right matters. She felt little pity for his passing. No, what concerned her now was that somewhere an hour glass was emptying its sands, and when the last grain slithered down, an operation would begin that somehow involved a killer satellite in orbit around Earth.
Placed there by Randall Krayman, the man behind it all. Since the driver in the cream-colored suit would not answer her questions, Sandy was forced to make assumptions. Obviously, he worked for some force opposing Krayman. She had felt from the start that Kelno was part of something bigger, and now she was about to learn precisely what that something was.
Sandy amused herself by mentally charting their journey toward Little Rock, a route purposely erratic so the driver could watch constantly for tails in the rearview mirror. They passed the outskirts of Little Rock just before four A.M. and continued north on Route 40 and later 65. Past Greenbier, they swung onto a desolate, unpaved road. Sandy leaned forward over the dashboard to see what must be their final destination.
It was an ancient abandoned airport, its few buildings left to the whims of the elements. …
No, wait. It wasn’t abandoned. There were cars. And people. Specifically, men with guns watching from the shadows.
The driver drew the car to a halt apart from the others. Sandy climbed out and followed him forward. He waited for her to catch up and escorted her into a spacious lounge that was surprisingly well maintained. The man took his leave and closed the door behind him. Sandy heard something stirring and noticed a figure rising from a vinyl couch in the corner of the lounge.
“Welcome to the inner sanctum,” the man said as he stretched his arms. He was dark and virile-looking, his face creased and bearded. His eyes were the darkest Sandy had ever seen.
“I’m Sandy Lister,” she said.
“Blaine McCracken,” the man replied. The woman looked familiar to him, but he wasn’t sure from where. He had long before discarded the janitor’s overalls, but the clothes he had worn beneath them still felt greasy and stiff with dried sweat. “You come here often?” he asked the woman.
“Only under escort … and duress.”
“Yup. I know the feeling.”
“Then I guess we have something in common.”
“I’m beginning to think more than we realize. But, how was it put to me? ‘It will all be explained soon.’ ”
“Sounds familiar,” Sandy agreed.
The man moved closer to her. “Does the name Randall Krayman mean anything to you?” he asked suddenly.
Sandy felt her shoulders sag. “What made you—”
“Just testing.” McCracken smiled, and was about to say more when a voice from the doorway caught his and Sandy’s attention.
“The final exam is yet to come, unfortunately,” the voice said.
And into the room stepped Simon Terrell.
Chapter 26
McCracken could tell from the woman’s face that she recognized the man who had just entered. The stranger stepped closer and extended his hand.
“The name’s Simon Terrell. I won’t bother introducing myself to Miss Lister, because we’ve met before.”
Blaine took Terrell’s hand. “I got your name. But who are you?”
Sandy answered before Terrell had a chance to. “Head of a rebel faction from deep within Krayman Industries, the common denominator in our individual pursuits.”
“Miss Lister is not far off the mark,” Terrell acknowledged. “We couldn’t risk contacting either of you directly.”
“So you waited for me to contact you,” Sandy realized. “In Seminole.”