Chapter 19
A slim Korean woman was waiting outside the door of the cell. Her face registered neither fear nor surprise as she spotted him, and Webb knew that she must somehow be part of the plan. She was dressed plainly, in a loose fitting brown shirt and pants of the type that so many of the local farmers wore. Her silky black hair was cropped to chin length and her face was partially obscured by a broad brimmed hat woven of plaited reeds. She did not speak, but turned swiftly and moved down the gloomy corridor. After a moment's hesitation, he followed and then froze as they came to the doorway that led to the open yard of the prison camp. A large, heavy wheeled supply truck was backed up to the door. In front of it, blocking their path were two guards with guns leveled upon them. Behind the guards stood the small, precise figure of General Yi Song-gye.
Webb glared from the woman to Yi. "What the hell is this?" he demanded.
Yi smiled. "Merely a business transaction, Mr. Webb."
"You might have mentioned that somewhere in your little speech about warriors and honor and the glory of ritual suicide," Webb said irritably.
Yi smiled benignly, but the coldness in his obsidian eyes remained. "Yesterday, we did not have an agreement. And the agreement I made with Captain Rabb was merely for your return, unharmed by us. It made no provisions for any damage you might do to yourself."
'You clever old son of a bitch,' Clay thought, returning the General's stony gaze. Yi had taken a losing situation and with a bit of careful suggestion and a coincidental opportunity he had turned it entirely to his advantage. A minute's difference either way and Yi would have had both his salvation and his revenge as well –and probably a sizeable ransom to boot.
Yi's gaze flickered to the woman and she bowed slightly, pulling a cell phone from the folds of her shirt. She pressed a button, waited a moment and spoke into the phone. Though he'd taken one of the Agency's crash courses in Korean before coming here, the dialect was unfamiliar and he could not make out the words. After a brief exchange, she handed the phone to Yi.
The General spoke briefly, and from the tone of command in his voice, Webb gathered that the phone on the other end of this conversation had changed hands as well. Yi nodded his satisfaction and snapped the phone shut.
"Your ransom has been paid, Mr. Webb. You are free to go."
The woman made a step towards the truck, but Yi held up his hand. "However, I do have just one small personal request."
"It seems to me that you've gotten more than enough out of this deal," Webb said angrily.
"And it seems to me that you are in no position to refuse my request," Yi said gently. He cast a meaningful look at the two guards. "It is a simple thing, really, more a personal matter than a professional one."
Yi turned and spoke sharply, dismissing the two guards. They nodded and moved off, taking up new positions a short distance away. Yi looked expectantly at the woman. She also stepped back, albeit reluctantly.
"My son has committed the greatest crime a man can commit in our society," Yi said quietly. "He has betrayed his people and dishonored his father." The General's cold black eyes fixed steadily upon Webb. "I hold you personally responsible for that."
Webb nodded, accepting the truth of the matter.
"By the rules of our people and our government, Chiang's crimes are punishable by death –and rightly so." Yi hesitated. "But he is still my son."
"What do you want, Yi?" Clay asked tiredly.
Yi shrugged. "I want you to extract Chiang. See him safely out of the country. He was not as careful as he might have been. Already there are questions being asked. I will do what I can but…" he shrugged meaningfully.
Clay studied the dry, dusty ground at his feet. There were only a few reasons one entered into this particular line of work: greed, a thirst for adrenaline, or a sense of patriotism and a deep and driving belief in the cause of freedom. His own particular purpose was the latter one. He did this job because he loved his country. But patriotism, he reminded himself, was a double edged sword. In order to defend his country, he must spend his life encouraging others to betray theirs.
He raised his eyes and forced himself to meet Yi's gaze. In spite of the fact that old bastard had intended to have him killed and was now holding Rabb in his place, there was something in the man that he had to respect. Yi was also a patriot, a man serving his country in the best way he knew how. But he was also a father, clearly caught between his duty to his country and his love for his son. He was seeking the best compromise he could make. Webb returned Yi's steady gaze.
"I'll see what I can do," he said at last, and meant it.
Yi nodded and stepped aside, motioning for Webb and the woman to climb in the truck. The woman scrambled in quickly and offered a hand to Webb, who found himself far less agile with the pain of his injuries. She pulled him in with surprising strength and they huddled down among the packing boxes. The guards locked the tail gate and the truck started with a heavy roar and moved out on gnashing gears.
From his position behind a crate, Webb watched as the small low lock house that had been his prison grew smaller in the distance. General Yi's imperious figure stood stiffly in the doorway, but it was the row of grated windows he fixed upon. A face appeared in one of them, tall and pale and he kept his eyes locked upon Rabb's until the truck rolled through the check point and the heavy wooden gates closed behind them. He sank down to the floor and tried not to think of Rabb's face, shadowed by the bars of the window grate. He didn't want to think of those piercing blue eyes, steadily following the progress of the truck as it rolled out of the prison. That would be his last memory of Harm, he realized. Likely, it would be the one image that would haunt him for the rest of his days.
As it turned out, he was wrong on both accounts.
***
They were less than two miles from the prison when the woman rose suddenly and climbed over the crates and boxes to the back of the truck. Motioning for him to follow, she hoisted her self over the tail gate. She held herself suspended for a moment and then dropped to the ground, rolling into the dense growth of underbrush that bordered each side of the road. Gingerly, Clay followed suit. Curling himself into a ball, he dropped and rolled to the ground. His body screamed in protest at the impact, but he couldn't allow himself to think about it. He came to a stop in a thicket of lush, heavy ferns and lay there, willing the pain to subside as the roar of the truck's engine faded into the distance.
After a few minutes the ferns parted and he found himself staring up into the delicate pixie face of the woman. She studied him carefully, her large dark, almond colored eyes sweeping over him as she assessed his injuries. Dropping to her knees, she took a moment to loosen the makeshift bandage that bound his leg. It was bleeding again. She surveyed the wound with a critical eye. Taking a knife from her belt, she quickly cut several of the ferns, then folded and crushed them into a compress. She bound them into place with the wrappings of the old bandage, knotting it tightly. Rising to her feet, she offered her hand and pulled Webb to his.
It was an effort now for him to walk, and he had to lean upon her from time to time to make it through the more rigorous parts of the trail. He really didn't know how long or how far they had traveled. He was too focused on keeping up with her driven pace to pay much attention. He was nearly at the end of his endurance when she stopped suddenly in the middle of a small timbered clearing beside the river and whistled a soft, bird-like note.
It was answered almost immediately, and two men suddenly appeared. They were dressed much like the woman, but each had an automatic rifle slung across their backs. A third man appeared, carrying an extra rifle which he handed to the woman. He was taller than the others, though nearly as dark and Clay smiled grimly. Even in the clothing of a Korean peasant, Galindez stuck out almost as badly as he did. They really needed to keep him to the South American and Middle East assignments.
"Am I glad to see you," Galindez said, taking Webb by the shoulders and looking him up and down. "I thought you were a goner, boss."
"So did I," Webb replied, slightly breathless. He teetered slightly and felt his knees begin to buckle, but Galindez's grip tightened upon his shoulders, steadying him. The taller man wasted no time in pulling him over to a fallen log and helping him to sit. Over his shoulder, Galindez spoke rapidly in Korean and a boy appeared from the brush, carrying a canteen and a small pack. Galindez handed the canteen to Webb, who drank deeply.
"I owe you one, Gunny," he gasped, fumbling to replace the cap.
Galindez shook his head. "I figure after Paraguay, this just about makes us even." He took the canteen back and deftly tightened the cap. "You probably are in to the Captain for a mighty big one though."
'No kidding,' Clay nodded and swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the stone that had settled somewhere in the pit of his stomach as he thought of Rabb, back in that prison camp. He looked carefully at the men around them, wondering how many more there were and how well armed. If he could convince them to move quickly, there might still be a chance. Surely Galindez would have something in mind.
Galindez, however, was looking from him to the woman and then further down the trail behind them, a question growing upon his face.
"Where is Rabb, anyway?"
***
Ten years later…
The steady stream of water sluiced over the hood, washing away the last of the dirt and geranium petals. Sturgis carefully trained spray upon the mess, allowing the force of the water to carry it down the driveway and into the grass. Closing the valve, he cast the garden hose aside and turned to face Galindez. Victor sat perched upon a stool beside the workbench, toying with the bottle of beer gone warm in his hands.
"It wasn't until that moment that I understood what he had done," Victor murmured.
Sturgis ran a hand over the hood of the car, pushing away the water that beaded up on the highly waxed surface. A long scratch marred the glossy red finish of the hood and he traced it with his finger. Webb was definitely going to be dropping some serious money at the body shop for this one.
"I'm not sure I understand it myself," Turner said heavily. "What went wrong?"
"Nothing," Galindez replied and climbed off the stool to pull another beer from the mini fridge beneath the workbench. He tossed it to Turner. "It went exactly the way he planned it."
Twisting the cap off the beer with a flick of his wrist, Sturgis tossed it into the garbage, then crossed to the other side of the garage and punched a button above the workbench, closing the garage door down upon them and Webb's convertible.
"There never were any files or false intel. The only thing Rabb intended to trade to the North Koreans was himself." Victor explained.
Sturgis frowned, clearly confused. "Why?"
"Because it was their price."
"That's one hell of a price," Sturgis observed, "--and a damned unusual one. They had one of the Company's top spies in their hand. Why would they be willing to trade him at all?"
Victor shifted uneasily. "I can't really say."
Sturgis's direct gaze pierced his. "As in you don't know? –Or you can't say?"
"I can't say," Victor repeated. "But one might surmise that the North Koreans might have been afraid of some things the Chinese could have learned from interrogating Clay. –Some things that the North Koreans might not have wished the Chinese to know."
"I see," Sturgis said carefully, even though he didn't. –Not entirely, anyhow.
From somewhere above, they could hear the faint shifting of the floorboards above their heads and the rise and fall of feminine voices as the women moved back and forth across the kitchen. As of yet, no one had missed them, or noted Sarah and Clay's conspicuous absence, but they would soon enough. Sturgis leaned one hip against the car and considered Galindez. The man was staring back at him, his expression more than a little uncomfortable, and Sturgis knew that his own face reflected that same disquiet. He had opened the door into this conversation, knowing full well the gravity of it, and yet he still had not been prepared for the things Galindez had told him.
He felt somewhat at war with himself as he struggled to maintain his impassive demeanor. On the one hand, he shared the feeling of anger and betrayal that Mac must have felt upon discovering the part her husband had played in covering up Harm's death. On the other, he could also see why Webb and Galindez had been so eager to bury it. They had been caught in a no-win situation and Harm had given them a solution. One they had taken, not realizing the sacrifice that was attached until it was too late.
Sturgis's eyes wandered to the far end of the garage where the sleek lines of the classic Corvette were veiled beneath a heavy drop cloth, and felt the weight of the other man's eyes upon him. He wasn't entirely certain what it was Galindez wanted him to say. If it was absolution he sought, Sturgis couldn't give it. Only God and Harmon Rabb Jr. could do that. Still, he sensed that Galindez needed to tell him, and perhaps after all these years, he still needed to know.
"Did you do it?" he asked, finally uttering the words that lay heavily between them.
"No," Galindez said. "But there are nights when I wish I had."
Victor saw the shock that flickered in Turner's eyes and smiled ruefully. "You have to understand," he murmured. "It was the last thing he asked of me, and in the end, I couldn't do it."
Turner wanted to ask who did do it, but he had been a minister's son for too many years to completely ignore the torment he heard in Galindez's words.
"If you had, could you really have lived with that?"
Victor shied away from the question. "It would have been better," he insisted.
"Better for who? You?" Sturgis demanded. "Or better for Harm?"
"Better for Clay." Victor said softly.
Sturgis set the beer bottle down as carefully as if it were filled with nitroglycerine rather than Corona.
"I think you'd better tell me the rest of it," he said.
***
Ten years earlier
Somewhere in North Korea…
It was the first time he had ever seen Clayton Webb at a complete and total loss for what to do. Frankly, that worried him more than a little, for Victor realized he'd come to count on Webb's quiet, steadfast leadership in the most dire of situations. But Webb, for once, seemed incapable. He sat upon the log, his face buried in his hands. His silence and stillness seemed to oppress even the small, quiet sounds of the birds and the insects. And yet, everyone watched him expectantly, as if sensing the next move was in his hands.
"What do we do?" Victor asked, sensing the impatience of the woman and her cohorts.
Webb straightened and scrubbed his palms across his face as if to shove back the exhaustion that had etched itself into the lines around his eyes and mouth. After a moment, he forced himself to look up to the circle of expectant faces.
"We go back."
***
Rabb listened to the sound of the General's footsteps as they echoed down the empty corridor and faded into silence. Satisfied that he was once more alone with his thoughts, he shoved the chair away from the table and tipped it backwards towards the wall, unmindful of the precarious angle at which he now balanced. The worst he could do was break his neck, and that might be actually be fortuitous, considering the situation. In less than an hour he would be handed over to the Chinese and whisked away to Beijing for what promised to be an intensive interrogation.
Ironically enough, his brief interview with the North Korean spymaster had been polite –almost congenial—and he could not help but wonder at the man's motives for engaging in such a bargain. Certainly the money was a factor. Although the mysterious Black Dragon was undoubtedly keeping the Lion's share of the million dollars he and Galindez had put up, he knew that a sizeable portion of it had been paid to the General as incentive to negotiate. But it was the fact that the man was willing to bargain at all that made Harm wonder. In retrospect, the General had seemed unusually willing to make a deal –and perhaps a little relieved. It was enough to make him wonder if Webb had something on the man. Probably, he decided. Webb had something on almost everybody.
From somewhere outside in the prison compound he heard the long, low tolling of a bell. He counted each strike. Sixteen hundred hours. The Chinese would be here in half an hour, or so Yi had claimed. It really wasn't all that long and yet it seemed an eternity. Rabb wondered if Galindez had found a good spot. He hoped so. He was only going to get one shot at this. The random thought, fatalistic though it was, made him tense and he rocked forward, bringing the front legs of the chair slamming down to the worn concrete floor. Springing to his feet, he paced restlessly to the door then back to the window, as the confinement of the small room began to press in upon him. Reaching up with both hands, he took hold of the bars that covered the window and clenched them tightly as the urge to do something –anything—quickly overwhelmed him. The bars of the window held fast.
He gazed out the window for a long moment, watching the long double row of a prison work detail as it was marched past his window. They were thin, ragged scarecrows of men, with no spark of life or awareness apparent on their faces or in their eyes. He watched until the last man passed, and then dropped his head, pressing it into the rough, cool surface of the wall. He supposed he could be worse off. He could be one of them. They would spend years here, suffering back-breaking labor, starvation and abuse until they prayed for death to take them. He, on the other hand, would be out in thirty minutes. –If Galindez could keep his promise.
Harm closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the prisoners marching away. Then slowly let go of the bars. His palms were cool and sweaty and he wiped them against his trousers, feeling more than a little irritated with himself. It was a hell of a time to lose his nerve. The least he could do was go out with at least a little dignity. That, he supposed, was the whole trouble. It wasn't dying that was the problem, it was the waiting. He had spent most of his adult life dancing from one dangerous situation to another. By all rights, he really should have been dead long ago. He'd dodged bombs and bullets and landmines. He'd been stalked by terrorists, deranged backwoods rednecks and that premiere of psychopaths, Clark Palmer. He'd crashed so many planes that even he was surprised he still had his license. –Although granted, there had been extenuating circumstances. And yet, for all the close calls he'd had, he'd never really been afraid. He supposed it was because he'd always been so busy fighting to stay alive that he'd never really had time to think about it.
But now, there was nothing to do but wait …and think. This was it, he realized. This was the moment he had been avoiding since he had sent the woman from his hotel room with his answer to the Dragon and the North Koreans. Perhaps, it was the moment he had been avoiding his entire life. This was his final hour, the hour of reflection, the hour in which he must finally face himself.
Why had he done this? He had told Galindez it was because he owed it to Clay, and though it was true, it was not the reason. Clay had accused him of doing it for Mac. It was a logical conclusion, given their history, and he couldn't deny that it had probably lent some weight to his decision, but not in the way that Webb believed. He'd loved Mac. He would love her until he died –sometime in the next half hour or so—but she had not been the true catalyst for this devil's bargain he had struck. It had been the picture that had done it.
Reaching into the breast pocket of the field vest he took out the other picture he'd removed from Webb's wallet, the one he'd noticed in the restaurant, the small family portrait of Clay and Sarah and Penny. The three of them were smiling as if the photographer had just told them a funny joke. The corner of Webb's mouth was turned up in his trademark smirk and his eyes crinkled ever so slightly. Mac's smile was so brilliant and her dark eyes so sparkling that for a moment he could almost imagine the sound of her laughter, but it was the child that stopped him cold. She was perched between her parents, their arms wrapped securely around her and each other and her face bore the innocent expression of pure childish joy. He knew that picture well. He had one very much like it in his apartment in Honolulu. It had been taken six months before his father had left for Vietnam. It had been the last time he had been truly happy.
Dropping back into the chair, Harm set the picture down upon the table and contemplated it. He had told Clay he was doing this for the child, and he hadn't lied. Staring down into her youthful, innocent face had been like looking into a crystal ball. He had seen her future. He had lived it. She would be too much like her mother to be satisfied with vague explanations, and she would be too much like her father not to figure out a way to learn what she would so desperately want to know. She would grow up asking questions, and the more the answers were denied her, the more obsessed she would become with finding them. She would spend her life chasing a ghost, and even if she did find the truth, she would not be satisfied. Only in the end would she realize the futility of her endeavor. Too late she would realize that it had never been the truth about the man that she had wanted; it had been the man himself.
Everything he'd said to Clay had been the truth. He was doing this for Penny, and he wasn't afraid of what was to come. But here, in this final hour when he could not escape himself, he understood the truth about who he really was and what had brought him here:
He was not afraid to die. He was afraid to live.
It seemed ridiculous considering the places he had been and the things he had done. He'd been a fighter pilot, a successful trial lawyer, and even worked for the CIA. Most would have considered any one of these things a zenith of life experience, and he had done them all, but it wasn't really living. It was only now that he realized living had more to do with the little things than the big ones. It was the decisions you made and lived with for a lifetime. It was the people you loved and let into your life. It was the legacy you left behind you when you went. He had done all of the big things in life. It was the little ones –the important ones—that he had missed out on.
Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, a large manila envelope was winging its way to Washington D.C. and the desk of Sturgis Turner. It contained the Last Will and Testament of one Harmon Rabb Jr., a disappointingly thin document, with few assets and fewer heirs. It had been no spur of the moment thing. The constant changes in his lifestyle and the inherent dangers of his career deemed that he keep the document up to date, although this latest version had been languishing on his laptop for several months. He'd never quite gotten around to printing it off and having it signed and witnessed and notarized. He had brushed it off as procrastination, but if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, it had more to do with denial. To sign this new will was to make the old one null and void, and ultimately, to admit to yet another failure.
The old will, of course, had named Kate Pike as his main beneficiary, but had been back when they were still trying to make a go of it, before she had given up on him completely and given him back his ring. She had been the first person he'd looked up when Naval Intelligence had posted him to Pearl, and they'd had a couple of good years together. But inevitably, Mac's memory had caught up to them and though he'd tried to hide it, Kate had been no one's fool. She'd made the decision to end it before things turned completely bitter. They were still friends, and the last he'd heard, she'd married some cop from Honolulu. He'd had half a mind to leave the will as it was, but he supposed Kate's new husband might be suspicious about her receiving such a windfall from an old boyfriend, and so he'd changed it one final time.
It was depressingly simple. In many ways it was not much changed from the first will he'd drawn up for himself when he'd first gone to work at JAG all those years back. Only the names had changed. The Stearman now went to Mattie Grace, instead of Josh Pendry. It was a better choice anyways. Mattie had learned to fly in the old bi-plane, and he doubted Annie Pendry would have appreciated the bequest to her son. Mattie was the closest he had come to having a daughter, even though she had left him several years ago, after finally making peace with her father. He hadn't seen her in almost two years, though she emailed him regularly and still called on the holidays. She was in college now, and he'd never quite broken himself of the habit of sending her a check every month to "buy fresh pizza."
The Corvette, of course went to Turner. Not just because they'd worked on it together, but because it had been the price agreed upon years ago, when he'd changed his will to name Sturgis as executor of his will after Mac and Clay had married. The Harley still went to Jack Keeter, which left nothing but the money and a few personal effects. With his mother gone now, it all went to Sergei, save for a couple of thousand dollars and the few odds and ends that Mattie might want.
It was a simple matter to print it off and find a couple of officials in the Seoul embassy to witness and notarize it for him before he'd dropped it in the mail pouch to Washington, but he understood now why he had put it off for so long. It had been a bitter pill to swallow. It was an admission that he was alone and on the wrong side of forty with no future ahead and no loved ones to share it with.
But it could have been different. –If he had allowed it.
He brushed a finger across the small photograph, lightly tracing the delicate features of the woman he'd never quite been able to let go of. The first time he'd met her, that long ago day in the White House rose garden, he'd half-thought she was Diane, miraculously resurrected from the grave. But Sarah in life haunted him with a relentlessness that eclipsed even Diane's memory. Somewhere along the line, almost without his noticing it, she had become the one. She had been the one great love of his life. She was his closest confidant, his staunchest supporter, his greatest adversary, and ultimately, the one woman he could never have.
He knew now the reason he couldn't have her. Well, truthfully, he had always known, but it was only now that he was willing to admit it to himself. He had been afraid. He'd been afraid that he would lose her. It seemed inevitable that everyone who really mattered would leave sooner or later. His father had left him first for the war, and later for a Russian peasant woman who somehow had become more important than the wife and son he'd left in the States. His mother hadn't physically left him, but her remarriage to Frank had seemed to him an abandonment of a sort, a sign that she was giving up on her husband and the memory of the family that they had been. The string of adult relationships that followed were even worse. Diane and Jordan had been murdered. Annie had never been able to accept him for who he really was. Renee had tried to make him into something he wasn't, and Kate and Meg had just grown tired of the endless dance and gone off to make their own careers.
And then, one day, there was Mac.
She didn't judge him or try to mold him. She simply accepted …and she stayed. She'd been there through all of it: his search for his father, his brushes with Palmer, his grief for Diane and Jordan and the sting of a dozen failed relationships, his return to flying and back again to JAG. No matter the headaches or heartaches she'd stood by him through it all until he slowly realized he could not imagine his life without her. The thought had terrified him and though he knew he had only to reach for her –to say the words and have all he'd ever wanted, he found that he could not. All the people he'd ever really loved had left him, and he could not bear the loss of her. So he'd let things continue as they had, paralyzed with his love for her, always waiting for the other shoe to drop –until one day it finally did. Even Mac could not wait forever.
From somewhere in the distance, the faint drone of an engine grew steadily louder, floating over the ridge, across the valley and through the window of his dingy cell. A moment later he could make out the distinct thump of a rotor blade beating heavily at the air. Rising from his chair, he turned back to the window and peered through the grate. The distinct shape of a black helicopter soared over the ridge then swept low over the fields. The wind from the rotor sliced through the tall grass at the edge of the fields then buffeted the spindly plants the workers tended, forcing the prisoners to shield their faces from the blast.
He spared one more look at the photograph before tucking it back into his pocket. In the end, it was still the best solution that he could think of. Clay would soon be on his way home to his wife and daughter. Penny would have her father back and Mac… Well, if this was the best that he could do for Mac, to leave her with her husband and a father for her child, then so be it.
Glancing back out the window, he watched the aircraft drop low over the field and hover a short distance from the prison compound. It turned slightly as it landed and he caught sight of the bold red star emblazoned on its side, near the tail rotor. He was surprised by the wave of relief that washed over him as he recognized the markings. It was almost over. The Chinese were here. It was time. He was ready.
***
"Son of a bitch!" Clay whispered, laying flat in the tall grass as the chopper swept over them.
Galindez could not actually hear him, what with the screaming of the engines over head, but he'd tilted his head to look at Clay and had clearly read his lips. Although he concurred wholeheartedly, he was still a bit startled by the epithet. Webb, as rule, did not curse. Even when his temper flared to the breaking point, he usually found more creative and cutting ways to express his displeasure. He supposed it was just one more bit of proof that this whole operation really had gone to hell.
He waited for a moment until the chopper had passed and then tapped Webb, gaining his attention. "Do you think they spotted us?"
Webb considered this for a moment. "If they did, we'll know soon enough. They'll come back for a second pass. Did you spot the guns?"
Victor nodded. "Looked like fifty calibers. Even if they are out for a pleasure cruise, they can handle trouble if it comes."
Webb slowly parted the thick patch of grass in front of him and risked a peak towards the prison compound. "Well, there goes plan A," he said sourly.
From the ground, the narrow strips of tall grass between the fields provided good cover and an opportunity to approach the compound unseen. But from the air, they were completely exposed. Not to mention out of time.
Webb heard a soft rustle to his right and saw the woman stealthily creeping up beside him.
"We should go," she hissed.
"No," he said sharply, "not until it's over."
"It is over," she snapped. "We go now."
She froze suddenly as she felt the sharp edge of the pistol barrel press against the base of her skull, just behind her ear and heard the soft click of the safety being released. She rolled her gaze in his direction. The eyes that met hers were flat and cold, the color of mossy stones in a river bottom. There was death in those eyes …and determination.
"It's over when I say it is."
She expelled a careful breath. "You are a fool," she said. "We will die here."
Had she been a more timid woman, his expression would have chilled her. "I'm prepared for that."
Her eyes flicked from his to lock with Galindez. "This is not the agreement we made."
"No," Victor said coldly. "It's not."
Webb nudged the muzzle of the pistol a little harder into her neck. "I'm renegotiating," he said abruptly. "If you or any of your men try to take out of here before I say so, you'll be the first one I shoot."
Her jaw clenched but she said nothing. After a long pause, she finally nodded her acquiescence. Webb slowly eased the pistol away from her ear, but kept his arm across her back, the weight of the gun heavy upon her shoulder.
The chopper's engine faded to silence with a low, protesting moan and from somewhere beneath it they heard the higher pitched sound of a smaller engine. Glancing carefully through the weeds, they were able to make out the low, blocky shape of the military style Hummer crawling over the rough road and across the field to the chopper.
"What do we do?" Galindez asked.
Clay glanced from the compound to the helicopter to the rapidly approaching vehicle, his mind swiftly calculating the odds of the rough idea that was forming in his mind. It wasn't really a plan. Hell, it was barely even a concept, but given the fact that their time table had been substantially advanced, it was the only thing he could think of.
"We take the chopper," he said.
"With what?" the woman asked acidly.
"With your men," he replied. "Right now, that chopper is the biggest threat on the field. We have to take it out and disable it. Then, when they come out of the compound with Rabb, we'll attack the vehicles. If we can get control of them, we can collect your men and make a run for it."
The woman gazed at him scornfully. "Even if we do succeed, they will come after us. They will call in other helicopters. Do you really think we would stand a chance?"
"It's the only chance we have, unless you see a better one." Clay retorted.
The woman considered him for a long moment. "Actually," she said at last, "I do."
"Would you care to share it with us?" Galindez asked sarcastically.
Her smile was cool. "Of course," she replied. "—For a price."
"How much?" Clay snapped.
"One hundred thousand dollars," she replied.
"Fine," he said tersely. "Now tell me."
"We take the helicopter and fly it out of here," she replied. Turning slowly, she nodded towards the tallest of her men, the outline of his body almost completely concealed in the grasses. "Mat-Sun is a man of many talents. He can fly the aircraft. We ambush the vehicles, collect your friend and then fly out of here."
Webb glanced to Galindez. "Works for me," Victor said.
"Then let's do it."
"What about the kid?" Victor asked, nodding to the boy, also crouched low in the grass a few feet away.
Webb sighed, he really didn't know what in the hell Rabb had been thinking, bringing a kid into something like this. –And he frankly couldn't believe Victor had allowed it. But then it seemed nothing was as it should be with this particular operation. He thought of insisting that the boy stay put, but he'd seen the way the kid had argued with them, back on the mountain, and he knew the boy wouldn't listen and would follow them anyway. Judging from the hard-eyed pack of thugs Galindez and Rabb had managed to collect for this little operation, he doubted the smugglers would have much tolerance for the kid. And he had promised Rabb. He sighed. There really was only one option.
"He comes with us," Clay said quietly, then looked to the woman. "Brief your men."
***
The last body fell, swift and silent, to the ground before being pulled away into the tall grass behind the helicopter.
"The chopper is secured," Galindez reported. His voice was calm and businesslike. A moment later a figure in a slightly ill-fitting jumpsuit took up position beside the chopper.
"The men are getting into place," he added.
Webb nodded. "Let's just hope the guards up in the tower don't notice anything different and get suspicious. Our friend Mat-Sun won't have an easy time taking off if they decide to open up with those guns."
They had made their way into a small drainage ditch that ran along one side of the road, branching off here and there to trickle a meager supply of water into the fields of spindly vegetables.
"You think they'll come in one vehicle or two?" Galindez asked.
"Two," Webb replied. "Yi won't want to let them leave without a proper send-off. You take the first driver. I'll take the second." He glanced to the woman. "You start in on the rest of their escort. Take the ones around Rabb first."
"And if there's only one vehicle?"
"Galindez still takes the driver. We'll take everyone else."
"Here they come," Galindez said, bringing the sniper rifle to his shoulder and looking through the scope. "Rabb is in the second vehicle."
Victor paused and then swore softly. "This won't be an easy, they're moving fast."
Webb raised his own weapon and sighted down the barrel. Sure enough, the first Hummer held a small contingent of four guards. The second one was the jackpot. Rabb was cuffed and chained in the back seat between the two Chinese Agents. Yi sat in the front next to the driver. Clay expelled a soft breath as he fought back the sudden wave of tension. There could be no margin for error. Even the smallest hesitation could make the difference between killing the driver and accidentally hitting Rabb.
Galindez must have shared his thoughts, for he shifted slightly in the grass. "We need to slow them down," he said. "I'd hate to miss and hit the Captain."
"I'm open to suggestions," Clay muttered.
"I can do it," a soft voice piped up from somewhere behind them.
Webb resisted the urge to glare at the kid. "Stay where you're at," he snapped as he continued to follow the progress of the Hummers through his sights. They were the typical military models, with open tops and a large caliber machine gun mounted on the back of the lead vehicle.
It happened so quickly that there was no time to react. He heard the small rip of the Velcro, heard Galindez's harsh exclamation and glanced over in time to see the boy slash a vicious stroke down his own arm with the knife he had pulled from Victor's belt. The blood flowed freely as he dropped the knife and the raised his arm and wiped it across his cheek, leaving a wide bloody streak across the side of his face. Clutching his wounded arm close to his side, the kid scrambled up the bank and launched himself directly in the path of the oncoming trucks, calling out loudly in almost unintelligible Korean.
As diversions went, he couldn't have done better himself. The driver of the lead vehicle, startled by the sudden appearance of what appeared to be a hysterical and badly wounded boy, swerved wildly to avoid the child. The Hummer careened wildly towards the edge of the road, its tires scrambling to maintain traction as it skidded to a stop. The second vehicle braked abruptly and Webb saw the occupants immediately tense, the guards reaching for their weapons. It was his last clear memory before he closed his finger on the trigger of his weapon and the scene exploded in a barrage of gunfire.
The driver of the second vehicle was killed instantly, as was one of the Chinese agents. The driver of the first Hummer, shielded somewhat by the awkward angle at which the truck had tilted, was struck in the thigh but managed to press his foot hard into the accelerator and crank sharply on the wheel, sending the vehicle down into the ditch and across the rough terrain of the open field. One of his companions was thrown from the back and this time, Galindez's shot was clean and true. The man fell like a carelessly tossed rag doll, his outstretched hand inches from where the boy knelt, cowering in the middle of the road.
From somewhere in the distance, they could hear the whine of the engine as the helicopter prepared for takeoff and the chatter of distant gunfire as the guards in the tower raised the alarm. Charging up the embankment, Webb topped in time to see Yi shove the lifeless body of the driver into the road and slide behind the wheel. He raised his gun again and fired. The bullet struck the General in the shoulder, and Yi ducked low behind the wheel, flooring the accelerator and sending the Hummer roaring down the road, directly towards the boy. He charged without thinking, grabbing at the boy's shirt collar and dragging him back as the truck roared past. He caught a glimpse of Rabb in the back, struggling wildly with the Chinese agent who was trying to reach the gun mounted on the back of the vehicle.
He moved as if on autopilot, shoving the boy back towards the ditch and using his gun to shove himself painfully to his feet. Galindez and the woman were both firing now. Galindez, taking aim at the tires of the vehicle that held Rabb, the woman at the escort vehicle which had scrambled its way back up on the road and was returning fire. The prison compound was now boiling over with armed guards, scrambling to herd the prisoners back to a secure location and mount reinforcements to support their commander.
Raising his weapon, Webb sighted carefully on the driver of the escort vehicle. Tracking its progress as it curved the bend in the road and made towards the helicopter. Just like shooting skeet, he told himself and allowed his weapon to lead the target. He expelled another careful breath and squeezed the trigger. There was a split second of hesitation and then the driver slumped over the wheel. The truck lurched wildly off the road and down the steep embankment rolling end over end before coming to a rest in the bottom of the irrigation ditch.
He turned his attention back to the other vehicle. Rabb was struggling furiously now with the Chinese agent, but his handcuffs prevented him from doing much more than jerking wildly at the man's clothes and limbs. Finally his adversary wielded him a wicked blow that seemed to faze him, for he slumped back against the seat and the agent turned back to take control of the gun. He felt something strike him hard behind the knees and his bad leg collapsed beneath him sending him rolling as the bullets sprayed frighteningly close. Reaching out he grabbed hold of the boy and rolled both of them off of the road and down into the grass. He spared no time to thank the boy, but crawled furiously back up the bank in pursuit of their quarry.
It wasn't all bad, though, Clay thought as he caught sight of the Hummer. Yi was rapidly approaching the helicopter which had finally gained enough momentum to lift off. The General and his Chinese associate were about to get their second unpleasant surprise of the day.
The chopper lifted off and swung suddenly, turning its guns to face the Hummer, but Yi must have anticipated something, for he jerked the wheel sharply, sending the truck off the road and down into the open vegetable field. The chopper opened up with the guns, and Clay cringed, momentarily glad that Rabb was unconscious on back seat. The Chinese officer was turning his gun upon the helicopter now, and Clay saw one or two of the bullets strike home on the windscreen and fuselage of the chopper. He followed the progress of Yi's vehicle back towards the prison, and saw the gates of the compound open up to expel two more vehicles, loaded with soldiers and fully armed.
"We've got to get out of here!" He yelled.
The woman nodded her understanding and fired her weapon in the air, catching the pilot's attention. The chopper, forced to break off it's pursuit of the Hummer, swung across the field in their direction. They shielded their faces from the spray of sand and small stones the blades kicked up and quickly made their way towards the open door.
"Everybody in!" Webb yelled, slapping Galindez on the shoulder.
Galindez looked around. "Where's the kid?"
Glancing back down into the ditch, Clay saw the boy still lying face down where he'd left him. Half skidding, half sliding down into the ditch, he reached Kim and flipped him over. What with his act in the middle of the road, the kid was a mess, but he quickly saw that there was more blood there than the knife could account for. A deep red patch had blossomed across the boy's shirt front, seeping from a wound in his side.
Galindez sliding to a halt beside him, assessed the situation in an instant and slung the kid over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.
"Let's go!" he shouted, "before they decide to leave without us!"
The two men scrambled back up the bank to the road and Webb reached out to steady the boy as they heaved him inside the chopper while the woman laid down cover fire. Rolling in after Galindez, he caught the pilot's attention and jerked his thumb into the air. "Take it up!" he shouted, barely able to hear himself above the roar of the engine and the wind.
He pointed in the direction of Yi's battered Hummer, now roaring through the gates of the compound.
"Tell him to go after them!" He shouted to the woman.
She made no move to comply. Instead, she simply looked at him. "You do realize you are madmen," she said calmly, "we will all die."
Unexpectedly, Galindez swung his weapon so that it was pointed at the pilot's back. "We all have to die someday," Galindez said, "But whether or not it's today is up to you. Now tell him!"
She gave a sharp nod and shouted to the pilot. He gave her a slightly disbelieving look, but then acknowledged her with a slight shrug and turned the chopper towards the prison.
They swept low over the prison gates, Galindez and Webb joining the smugglers in the open doors of the helicopter as they exchanged fire with the soldiers on the ground. The Hummer had rolled to a stop in the middle of the compound. Yi was slumped across the wheel, though whether he was dead or just unconscious it was hard to tell. The Chinese agent and another guard were struggling frantically with something on the floor of the backseat, and Webb realized they were struggling with the padlock that secured Rabb's shackles to the floor of the truck. They were repelling a hail of small arms fire now and all of them were hovering close to the floor in an attempt to stay clear of the bullets. Suddenly a round ripped through the side of the helicopter, tearing a jagged hole in the fuselage and sending a shower of sparks from the wiring it had ripped through as it passed.
"It's coming from the tower!" Victor yelled, pointing to the guards who had turned their heavy, fifty caliber machine guns upon the chopper. Immediately the woman went to one of the guns mounted in the side door of the chopper and began returning fire.
"We must go!" She shouted.
"No!" Webb yelled. Throwing down his empty rifle, he reached for his pistol and slid closer to the door, risking another glance down. Rabb had come around again, and was fighting now with the men who were still trying to unshackle him from the vehicle. Another set of hands grabbed his shoulders and yanked him back, forcing him to lie prone across the seat. He looked skyward to where the chopper hovered and his eyes met Webb's. For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Then Rabb shook his head, and his lips seemed to form a single word.
Go.
Galindez's hand clamped down suddenly on Webb's arm. "We can't stay here. We're ducks in a shooting gallery." Though his words were shouted, they barely registered in Webb's ear. The two men traded a long look, filled with agony and understanding. Finally, Webb nodded.
"Do it." He said harshly.
Another barrage of bullets rained upon the chopper, one of them smashing through the windscreen and the pilot shouted something that Webb assumed was an obscenity, but managed to keep control of the aircraft and bring it around for another pass. Galindez knelt against the open door and raised his rifle to his shoulder as he sited it in and waited for the chopper to swing around again for a clear shot. Finally the vehicle came into view. He had a clear shot …and still, he hesitated. A second passed, then two. It seemed like an eternity in the midst of the constant assault. Then Galindez slowly lowered the rifle and shook his head. His eyes were shining, and Webb could just make out the hint of dampness brimming upon the ebony lashes.
Wordlessly, Webb reached out and took the rifle from him, denying the slight trembling of his hands as he did so. He would not falter, he told himself as he lifted the rifle to his shoulder. He was not a man. He was a machine –a machine programmed to kill. He seated his eye against the scope and repeated the mantra silently to himself as he let his training take over. One shot, one kill. He felt his heart beat begin to slow. He fixed the crosshairs upon the Chinese agent and fired. The man slumped to floor of the Hummer. He focused upon the North Korean guard and repeated the process, watching as the man's body slipped to the ground. He was dimly aware of Galindez firing in his ear and saw the second guard, the one who had held Rabb down, fall away from the vehicle. He swung the rifle to bear upon his final target and froze as the brilliant blue gaze met his through the barrel of the scope.
An eternity seemed to pass between them, and in that instant Rabb's face shifted from the tired, dirty intelligence operative to the young, fresh faced lawyer in Navy whites that he'd first met in the White House Rose garden all those years ago. It shifted again, and he saw Rabb's surprised face peering at him from the darkness of the ship's engine room the night they had gone after Clark Palmer. And again, filled with gratitude that cold winter night beside the polished black granite wall of the Vietnam Memorial the night he had brought Sergei out of Chechnya. And then it was just Rabb, tired and worn and staring up at him with a look of understanding and Clay could not help but think of their parting words.
'You have to do this. You have to live with it, because I can't.'
He suddenly wasn't so sure about that, but Rabb nodded slowly then, his eyes granting both permission and absolution as he deliberately mouthed the words.
Do it.
Webb put finger on the trigger…expelled another shallow breath as he waited for the next heartbeat to pass and then…
The explosion of the gunshot was loud in his ear. Through the scope of the rifle, he saw the body jerk with the impact, saw the spray of blood and a hundred other little details that he would spend the rest of his life trying to forget. The rifle clattered to the deck, dropping from his suddenly nerveless fingers. The round discharged harmlessly into the ground below. Slowly, he turned and raised his eyes to the woman. She stood at his shoulder, her weapon still smoking in her hand. The brown eyes that met his were flat and lifeless.
"It is done." She said simply. "Now we go."
***
The sound of the Marine helicopter making its routine pass over the cemetery to the barracks kept him locked in the vivid memory and for a moment it was not the simple marble headstone he saw, but the lifeless body of a man who had been a colleague, an irritant, an adversary, and ultimately, a friend. There were still nights when he woke in a cold sweat with the sound of the helicopter and the memory of that gunshot still ringing in his ears. Those were the nights he would go to the living room and sit in the chair in front of the fire. Those were the times when he would while away the sleepless hours carefully replaying the events in his eidetic mind, reassuring himself by checking the facts against the nightmares. And there were many nightmares. Most of them ended with him pulling the trigger and looking up to see no one standing behind him. No woman. No smoking gun. --Nothing but the cold and terrible certainty that he really had done it after all.
A small sound shook him from his reverie and he turned to see Sarah, standing quietly behind him, tears streaming down her cheeks. He pulled his hand from his pocket, half thinking to brush them away, but the look in her eyes stopped him and he curled his fingers into his palm, curbing the instinct.
"So you didn't do it?" She asked. Her voice was rough with tears.
He shook his head. "No," he said quietly, returning his hand to his pocket.
"Would you have done it?"
He drew a deep breath. "I meant to."
She scowled at his avoidance of the question. "That's not what—
He shot her an irritated look. "I don't know, Sarah." He spoke harshly, but his eyes were desperate. "I don't know. Sometimes I think maybe— he hesitated and shook his head again. "I'll never know the answer to that question. –And I'm glad of it. I'm too afraid of what the answer might be."
She fell silent again, absorbing his words as she framed her next question.
"So the woman killed him?"
"Yes."
"Because she thought you couldn't do it? …Because she wanted to get out of there?"
He shrugged. "That was probably part of it. But in the end, I think she would have killed him anyway."
"Why?" Sarah asked, clearly confused.
"Because," Clay replied, "She was paid to do it. She was the Black Dragon."