"I meant it as a compliment," she said sincerely. Ling folded her arms and studied me. "You helped us. We will take this risk."

"Thanks." Then I noticed something about the airfield. I stopped, tilted my head, and thought about it for a moment. It was stupid, but it could work. "Maybe we don't need to land. That way if I screw up and attract any attention, you guys are still in the clear." I pointed at a large green sign on a nearby hangar. "I've got an idea."

The hangar had a padlocked chain on the door, and was clearly closed for the winter. Ling followed my finger and read the sign.

Skydiving Lessons and Rentals "You can't be serious."

"Ms. Ling, serious is my middle name," I said with a smile.

I woke up looking at Albert Einstein again.

"Good evening, Mr. Lorenzo," Dr. Bundt said over the noise of the Cessna. The good doctor had come to the rear of the plane and sat next to me. "We'll be pa.s.sing over Flagstaff in thirty minutes."

"Groovy." I yawned and stretched. At least I had managed to get a couple of hours of sleep. The view out the window showed that it was nearly dark. Perfect. "I'll get ready. We'll need to pick a good spot. We've got to avoid witnesses, but someplace close enough that I can catch a ride into town."

"Understandable. You have done this before, I a.s.sume?"

"Jumped out of an airplane? Yeah, a few times." When Big Eddie had commissioned me to rob the Cape Town Diamond Exchange, my team had inserted with a HALO jump. We had practiced a mult.i.tude of times, jumping five or six times a day in the week leading up to the actual heist. Of course, one of Eddie's men had landed on a wrought iron fence and disemboweled himself, so I couldn't exactly say that it had been flawlessly executed. I changed the subject. "How's your patient?"

Ling was forward of us, sitting on the floor, leaning on the fuselage, next to the unconscious form of Valentine. The table had been removed, and Valentine was stretched out. He still looked like s.h.i.t.

Dr. Bundt shook his head. "At this point, I do not know. He'll live, but I do not know what shape he will be in. The boy has seen some serious trauma, and has been heavily medicated for quite some time. He still hasn't woken up."

"Well, when he wakes up, the kid and I need to talk." It was not a request.

"It may not be that simple, I'm afraid. Not everyone comes back fully from that kind of trauma."

"He's tough," I said simply.

"If only that were all there was to it. You see, when someone faces something so horrible, when something breaks inside their-"

I cut him off. "Whatever, Doc. I know how horrible works. Some people wimp out, let the hurt, the evil, own them. Others lock it up and hide it, and some people are really smart, and they keep it, and learn to use it as a weapon."

He paused, studying me. "And I a.s.sume that you are the latter?"

I had already said too much. "Don't bother to psychoa.n.a.lyze me, Doc. You're wasting your time."

"It is what I do," he said simply. "But if I were to make an educated guess, in a professional capacity, I would say that you had a very horrible childhood, violent, poor, probably a criminal background, most likely abusive. I can tell that by your reputation and behavior. You trust no one. Your natural instinct is to dislike everyone you meet. Your first reaction is to view them either as a threat or something you can use to your own advantage. Basically, you are what I believe you Americans would refer to as an a.s.shole."

"I'm the nicest a.s.shole you'll ever meet. You know I'm not paying for this session, right?" I moved over to check my stolen parachute.

He followed me. "But that's not all you are. I can only a.s.sume that you had some respite, some brief time where you actually learned to love. Where you actually learned about family and loyalty, and that not everyone in the world existed just to prey upon one another. I can tell this by the way you speak about those that you consider your own. For them, you are very protective. Perhaps those good times were somehow taken from you, rendering you bitter and full of hate for so long-"

"I'm not one of your freed slaves in need of fixing. Now if you'll excuse me . . ." I hoisted the parachute and headed forward.

His bony hand clamped down on my wrist. "Mr. Lorenzo, if I can ever be of a.s.sistance . . ."

I sighed, crouched uncomfortably in the cramped compartment. He meant well. "Dr. Bundt, just so you know. When I was a kid, I watched my old man beat my mother to death. I stabbed one of his eyes out with a fork when he came for me next. The judge that put my dad in prison took me in and gave me a home. He was a good man. A few years later, some sc.u.mbags killed him for his watch. So I hunted them down and murdered every last one of them. I've spent the time since hurting people and taking their stuff. So there really isn't much you can tell me that's going to fill me with warm fuzzies, if you know what I mean."

"See? I was actually pretty close," he said happily.

I gently removed his hand from my arm. "Score one for psychiatry." I moved toward the c.o.c.kpit. Ling was asleep, still holding Valentine's hand. I'd suspected there were some feelings there, at least on her side of the equation. Antoine and Shen watched me carefully step over them as I made my way to the c.o.c.kpit.

"We're getting close," the pilot said without turning around. "This area's actually really forested. Where do you want to get out?"

"That's the highway below us. I just need to be close enough to run to it. Pick me a good, open field where I won't break my neck, and I'll try for that. I'll get ready, you just give me the signal."

The pilot nodded. As I turned back around, Shen spoke.

"Was Doctor Bundt trying to a.n.a.lyze you?"

It took me a moment to respond. I could count the number of times that Shen had initiated conversation in the last week on one hand. "Yeah, apparently my psychological profile says I'm an a.s.shole."

"I could have told you that," he said, and actually grinned. Shen extended his hand. I shook it. He had a grip that could bend rebar. "It was a pleasure working with you."

"Yes, I thought I was going to have to kill you at first, but I would work with you anytime," Antoine said simply. "It was an honor."

Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned.

"Thanks guys, but this is only a detour. I'm not dead yet." I pa.s.sed forward a note that I had written some instructions on. "When you get to Santa Vasquez, the man you need to speak with at the airport is Guillermo Reyes. He runs all of the smuggling through that area. Tell him I sent you, and he'll arrange for new tail numbers and transponder. Don't let him give you any s.h.i.t. Shen, would you help me at the door?"

Shen moved to a.s.sist as I struggled into the chute. I had checked it on the ground in Montana, and it had appeared to be relatively new, in good condition and packed correctly, rigging seemed nice and tight, and if it wasn't, at least I wouldn't have to worry about it for very long. My Suunto watch had an illuminated altimeter, and had always been very accurate in the past. The light was fading, and I was planning to open low enough that hopefully I would minimize any witnesses.

I was dressed in jeans, a baggy grey long-sleeve shirt, and the same boots I had been wearing in Tickville. The holster for my STI 9mm was a standard concealment rig, nothing really jump capable, so I fixed that by zip tying the STI's grip to my belt. I had a pouch for the suppressor, and I hoped that it would hold, same with my two spare magazines. You may think something is securely attached to your person, but hitting the ground after a jump has a tendency to separate a lot of gear from their owners.

"There's a good pasture ahead. Looks fairly flat. The highway is one mile to the west," the pilot shouted. "Get ready."

I noticed Ling watching me. We had woken her. Her black eyes were difficult to read.

"If you don't hear from me in six hours, a.s.sume I'm dead," I said as I pulled the stolen goggles over my eyes. "I'm sorry about what I said earlier."

"No, you're not. But thank you for saying so. Good luck, Lorenzo," she said, smiling, still holding Valentine's hand. "See you in Mexico."

Shen opened the door behind me. The roar of the pa.s.sing airstream was deafening. The pilot pumped his fist in the air. It was time to go. I gave the Exodus operatives a wave, and stepped backward into the hundred mile-an-hour sky.

It had been awhile. The feeling was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. The wind tore at my clothing, battered my face, and sucked the moisture right off my grinning teeth. I could only vaguely see the color and texture of the ground. The sun was setting, and I knew that the odds of someone seeing the grey, terminal velocity blur that was my silhouette was slim. I held my arms at my side, clenched tight, legs extended, head down as I tore through the air at absurd speed.

There was the highway. The headlights were beacons. I could see the field that the pilot had picked out, a giant strip a slightly different shade of brown than the rest of the countryside. The numbers on my altimeter were changing rapidly. I'd changed the ground level on it before jumping, which was good because Arizona was a lot closer to the sky than Saint Carl.

Jill would really love this. She's never jumped before. I can only imagine how fun she would think this is.

Strange, the thoughts that wander through your head when you're streaking toward the ground at a speed sufficient to turn you into a red paste. Here I was, taking a stupid risk with a very high potential for death, and I was thinking about Jill. Well, that was understandable, since she was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Someone like me certainly didn't deserve someone like her. h.e.l.l, someone like me didn't deserve to be alive at all, let alone happy. It was probably best not to think such bad karmic thoughts while whistling through the air, flipping gravity the bird.

Pay attention. The ground was closer now, and every fiber of my being told me to deploy the chute. I'd disabled the automatic deployment preset. I checked my alt.i.tude again. Still a little too high on the horizon. A single police report that might show up in a government database would defeat the purpose of this idiotic stunt. I waited.

I flared my arms and legs out, feeling the current change over my body, turning myself into a giant air brake. The ground was close, screaming toward me. Ground! Ground! I told the panicky part of my brain to shut up. NOW!

I pulled the hacky sack looking ball from the base of my pack. The pilot chute shot out, but the big ram chute seemed to take forever to unfurl. The slider kept it from opening so fast that the straps would smash into me. That was always the sucky part. The parachute cracked and snapped above me. I glanced up. Nice and open, and I was shedding velocity.

It was only open for a few seconds, then there was the earth, scrolling beneath me at too high of a speed. This part was always really difficult in low light. Flare too soon, stall and free fall the last little bit, flare too late and you hit the ground too hard. I was out of practice, but landing felt pretty clean. My boots. .h.i.t the ground running. I made it about ten huge steps before I stepped into a soft depression and pitched sideways, twisting my ankle before landing on my hand, elbow, shoulder, and then I was rolling in a ma.s.s of dirt clods, parachute fabric, and cord.

Yep. It's been awhile.

I lay in the dust, spitting dirt, and catching my breath under a pile of blue fabric. My right ankle throbbed. Not my best landing by any means, but it would do. I untangled myself and stood. The field was dark and quiet in every direction. All clear. I checked my gear. One spare magazine was somewhere in the dirt, but I didn't have time to look for it.

Unbuckling the chute, I crumpled it into a ball in my arms and began to limp in the direction of the highway. That had been fun but now it was time to catch a ride.

I had thrown the chute in a drainage ditch. I had no doubt it would be found shortly. Everything I knew about agriculture could be written on a 3x5 card, with plenty of s.p.a.ce left over, so I had no idea how often people checked those kinds of things, but all I needed was a day or two.

My ankle was good and swollen by the time I reached the highway. I stepped out in front of the first set of headlights, waving my arms above my head. It was a pickup truck. The driver hit the brakes, and I had to step back onto the shoulder to keep from getting run over. The Dodge stopped twenty meters past me. I trotted up to the window as the driver rolled it down.

"What the h.e.l.l's the emergency?" He was an older man, with a puffy trucker hat and a scruffy grey beard. Both the driver and the pa.s.senger, a younger clone of the driver, eyed me suspiciously. "You look like h.e.l.l," he drawled.

"I've had a rough night. I need a ride into town."

"Where's your car?" he asked. The old man kept his right hand down at his side, probably on his gun. This was Arizona after all. "I don't pick up hitchhikers." Smart people in Arizona.

"Long story." I knew that I looked suspicious. Especially since I still had Smoot colored hair, was dusty, and I was walking along a highway in the middle of nowhere. "It's embarra.s.sing, okay?"

He put the truck back in drive and started to roll.

"Okay! Okay!" I said. The old man braked. "I had a fight with my girlfriend. I called her fat, 'cause she's totally let herself go. We pulled over so I could take a leak. She was mad, and drove off without me. My cell phone's in the car. I fell in a ditch running after her. Just give me a lift to the next place with a phone, and I'll call one of my friends in Flagstaff to pick me up. Come on, man, please?" I'm a very convincing liar. Might as well cut to the chase. I held up one hand with several twenties. "I can pay you for gas!"

He looked at me disdainfully and spit a mighty stream of chew out the window. "Get in back," he said with a jerk of his head.

Chapter 8: Shadows.

Lorenzo Flagstaff, Arizona February 15th It was a school night, so hopefully Bob's kids would all be home and not out s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around. All I needed to do was break in without being seen by the government agents who were surely staked out around the place, convince my sister-in-law-whom I barely knew-to trust me, and get them out of there without being spotted. Then somehow I needed to get them across the border, and to someplace safe. This sucks.

I made one pa.s.s through Bob's nice suburban neighborhood in the Jeep Cherokee that I had boosted from the truckstop on the outskirts of town. I knew where Bob lived because I'd broken in the last time I'd been here. He really should just give me a key. I spotted the watchers on the end of the street in an unmarked surveillance van. There was no one in the cab, heavily tinted windows all around, the standard stuff, it was really obvious. I tried to look nonchalant as I cruised past them, by the front of Bob's house, and around the corner.

I parked on the cul-de-sac that backed up to the Lorenzo family's backyard and checked my watch. It was pretty late and there was no one outside. It was drastically warmer than Montana, and happy insects swarmed the street lights. Some neighborhood dog started barking in the distance. It took me a few moments to pick the yard to cut through, no sign of pets, no motion detecting lights, and it didn't look like anyone was home. It was a straight shot through the yard and over the back fence.

Two minutes later I was using my b.u.mp keys to break into Bob's back door. He still had the same high-tech alarm system. This time it took me almost a minute and a half to bypa.s.s it. All that soft island living had made me sloppy.

The lights were on inside the Lorenzo house. The TV was playing in the family room, something obnoxious with a laugh track. A radio was on upstairs. I crept through the kitchen, trying to formulate a plan. This woman had married my brother, so I had no doubt that I was a split-second from getting a load of double aught buckshot to the face if I startled her.

There were children's toys scattered across the living room floor. The wall was covered in family pictures. They were all happy and smiling. I listened to the sounds of the house. Something was wrong. There were supposed to be several people home, but it didn't feel right. I had broken into a lot of homes, and I knew how an occupied house felt. n.o.body was here.

The bedroom closets were open. Clothes were spread on the beds. It felt like they had bailed out of here in a hurry. There was a pink Post-It note stuck to the mirror just inside the front entryway. The message had been written in neat, cursive handwriting. The pen was still lying on the hardwood floor directly below the mirror.

Dear Government a.s.sholes, I've been married to an FBI agent for fifteen years. Did you honestly think I would be stupid enough not to notice your van full of idiots watching my house and following me around?

I don't know what you've done with my husband, but we have made contingency plans. You will not find us. You will never find us. But my husband will find you. You picked the wrong family to f.u.c.k with. Bob is ten times the cop you p.u.s.s.ies are.

Hugs and kisses Gwen Lorenzo p.s. Kiss my a.s.s and die, you filthy, crooked, sons of b.i.t.c.hes.

It shouldn't have surprised me that the Lorenzo's had a bugout plan. I was rapidly discovering that there was a lot I didn't know about my relatives. It looked like my mission had already been accomplished. I was willing to bet that Gwen and the kids had gone out the same way that I had come in, probably had somebody waiting to pick them up in the cul-de-sac. h.e.l.l, I might have pa.s.sed them on the way into the neighborhood.

It appeared that Bob had married up.

"Well, since I'm here . . ." I muttered to myself. I might as well see if he'd left any clues as to what he had been working on that was so d.a.m.ned important.

His office was the only locked room in the bas.e.m.e.nt. It took me ten seconds to pick. Judging from the looks of the place, he took after dad. The desk was a mess of papers, a type of organized chaos that the Lorenzo men seemed to cultivate. Every wall had pictures, newspaper clippings, maps, timelines, and hundreds of Post-It notes stuck up. Under the notes were awards, commendations, citations for bravery, framed and then forgotten, things that most people would have thought to be very important, but Bob was too personally humble to worry about things like that. There were five guns hung on the wall behind the desk, muzzles pointed down in a half circle, the main rifles of WW2, an M1 Garand, a Russian Mosin Nagant, a British Enfield, a German Mauser, and a j.a.panese Arisaka, and that was the only s.p.a.ce without notes taped to it. That's because those had belonged to our father.

I scanned the notes. Names, dates, some circled, some with question marks after them. A lot of it was from the data that Valentine had dumped on the internet before he wasted Gordon Willis. There were a few familiar words that popped up a lot, like Blue and Alpha Point. The most common word was Majestic. It appeared over and over again. It was everywhere, oftentimes with an exclamation point behind it, like an angry afterthought.

Majestic is the shadow government. Majestic is the cancer.

There was a handwritten note on the top of the desk.

To whom it may concern, If you're reading this, I can only a.s.sume that I am dead. I hope you're not one of them. If you are, congratulations, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds win again. I've made arrangements for my family. If I disappear they know to go someplace where you'll never find them. They know nothing, so leave them out of it. I've kept them in the dark to protect them.

If somebody else finds this, I hope this information proves of more use to you than it has to me. I have spent the last few years of my life learning about a secret government organization usually known as Majestic.

They are the end result of secrets and decades of lies. At one time they existed for a good reason, to defend our country, to do the dirty jobs that others could not do, but they've become corrupt, perverted. They exist only to grow in power. They are in every facet of the government. The Bureau is infested with them. They're watching my every move.

I first found out about them as a young agent, after they arranged the murder of several witnesses to their crimes. These were innocent people. Since then I've been watching them, learning, and what I've found out is terrifying. They're always in the shadows, pulling the strings. They are above the law.

They are not evil. Just like a disease isn't evil. It just is. Majestic is a disease. May the truth be the cure.

Robert T. Lorenzo I began flipping through Bob's ramblings. If I hadn't had first-hand experience with this sort of thing I would've thought it was the rantings of a crazy man. He'd been working on this for a long time, way before he'd gotten Valentine's information from Zubara.

Just like Silvers, Bob had been preoccupied with this Project Blue. There was a printout with a few photos on it. Four Majestic operatives were involved with the creation and implementation of Project Blue.

I didn't recognize the first man, he looked like a politician type. Under his name had been written Former Senator Barrington, head of operations, killed under mysterious circ.u.mstances. The second man I had seen briefly in Quagmire, Nevada last year. He was a popular guy in my house, since he'd tried to have Jill murdered. Gordon Willis, murdered/possible suicide in Virginia. Head of Majestic black ops. The third picture was somebody else I'd met in less than perfect circ.u.mstances, mostly because his men had just captured me and he had my fingers broken during an interrogation. Colonel Curtis Hunter, Dead Six field commander. Killed in Zubara.

The last spot was blank except for where Bob had drawn a giant question mark. Apparently he didn't know who the fourth man was.

Blue was the doomsday option against Ill.

I paused. I hadn't seen a note that explained who or what "Ill" stood for. I doubted Majestic needed a doomsday option against Illinois.

Four operatives knew about Blue. Barrington came up with the plan. He enlisted the other three to implement it. Willis took command when Barrington was killed. Hunter and unknown subject set the Alpha Point. Hunter got cold feet. He must have realized that Majestic was up to no good. Gave up Majestic to Valentine when Willis betrayed Dead Six in Zubara. Two down. Before Willis can bring more operatives into the plan for Blue, he dies.

Four men knew about Blue. Three are dead. Majestic sc.r.a.ps Blue. But the final operative has gone rogue. Why? Maybe he thinks Majestic killed his compatriots?

Majestic is panicking. I've watched these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds for years, and I've never seen this before. Majestic doesn't know what Blue entails and they're scared of it. Zubaragate hurt them. If information on Blue leaks, it will kill them.

My phone rang. "d.a.m.n it." I didn't have time for this. I had to know what was going on. "What?" I snapped.