Blue Gold (NUMA Files 2)

Martin stepped to one side and reached behind the gate of a stall. He pulled out a double-barreled shotgun and leveled it at Austin’s midsection. “I got a telephone call just like the protocol said I would. I wouldn’t move if I were you. My sight isn’t what it used to be, but I can see you real well from here.”

Austin stared at the shotgun’s yawning black muzzle. “Maybe you should put that thing down before it goes off accidentally.”

“Sorry, son, I can’t do that,” Martin said. “And don’t try for the pitchfork stuck in that bale, I’d cut you in half before you took one step. Like I said, it’s that damned protocol calling the shots, not me.”

“I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t. The protocol’s been around probably since before you were born. Don’t suppose it will do any harm to let you know what it’s all about before I kill you.”

Austin’s heart ratcheted up a beat. He was defenseless. All he could do was stall for time. “I think you’ve made a mistake.”

“No mistake. That’s why I asked what you were doing here. I didn’t want to shoot some tourist who just dropped by to buy some eggs. The fact that you were looking for Martin shows you’re here to stop me.”

“Stop you from what?”

“Carrying out my contract.”

“I don’t know anything about any contract, but are you telling me you’re not Martin?”

“Heck no. I killed him a long time ago.”

“Why? He was just a test pilot.”

“Nothing personal, just like with you. I worked for the OSS under Wild Bill Donovan. I was what they’d call a hit man today. I pulled a few assignments after the war, then told them I wanted to retire. The boss said there was no way they could let me do that. I knew too much. So we worked out a deal. They’d keep me active for one more job. The only problem was, they didn’t know when the order would be carried out. It could be five months or five years.” He chuckled. “No one figured it would go on this long, especially me.”

Austin noticed that Martin had lost his folksy farm accent.

“Who were you supposed to kill?”

“The government had this big secret they didn’t want anyone to know about. They devised a system so that if anyone started snooping and got too close, the protocol would be activated. Here’s the real clever thing. They would make potential opposition come to me. They set me up here in the middle of nowhere. When you started poking around, it triggered a series of commands. One would tell you where I was. The last would tell me to carry out the original sanction against the Speaker of the House. Seems he heard about the government’s secret and was going to blow the whistle.”

“This protocol you’re talking about must be fifty years old. The congressman you were supposed to kill has been dead for years.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’m still under

orders. Sad thing, that secret’s so old it probably doesn’t make a difference one way or the other.” He lapsed back into his farm accent, and the blue eyes grew hard and cold. “Sure glad you came, son. I’m officially retired after this.”

The gun came up. Austin braced himself for the deafening blast. He tensed his stomach muscles as if by sheer will he could prevent the slug from tearing into his rib cage. Had he time to think about it, he would have ruminated on the irony, after surviving countless near-fatal assignments, of dying at the hands of a half-deaf, near-blind, octogenarian assassin.

A figure suddenly materialized behind Martin. It was Buzz. The old man’s sight was still keen enough for him to detect an involuntary change in Austin’s expression. He whirled around as Buzz cried out in surprise.

“You’re not my father!”

The old man’s body had shielded the shotgun, but now Buzz’s eyes dropped from Martin’s face to the weapon in his arms. The farmer brought his gun up to his shoulder, but his reflexes were dulled by the years. Austin had to make a split-second decision. He could put his head down and crash into the man’s backside like an enraged bull. Not enough time, he decided

“Martin!” he yelled, at the same time yanking the pitchfork from the bale.

The farmer turned back to Austin, who whipped the pitchfork at him like a javelin. He was aiming for Martin’s shooting side, but the old man stepped into the oncoming pitchfork and the tines perforated his heart and lungs. He cried out in pain, and the shotgun went off, barrel pointed toward the roof. The horse went crazy and tried to kick down its stall. The gun fell from Martin’s fingers. His eyes rolled into his head, and he crumpled to the wooden floor.

Austin kicked the shotgun out of reach more out of habit than necessity. Buzz had been frozen with shock, but now he came over and knelt by the body. Austin turned it over so they could see the face.

Buzz studied the man’s features for a moment and, to Austin’s relief, softly said, “No, he’s definitely not my father. He’s too tall, to begin with. My father was stocky like me. And the face is all wrong. Who in God’s name is he?”

“He called himself Martin, but that’s not his real name. I don’t know what it is.”

“Why was he trying to kill you—I mean, both of us?”

“He didn’t really know. He was like one of those trick bombs the Germans used to drop. They’d go off when the bomb squad tried to defuse them. By the way, I thought you were going to wait in the car.”