The Jungle (Oregon Files 8)

“Try to find where the computer is and blow it to pieces. And, no, we have no idea where it’s located. It could be anywhere.”

Cabrillo rubbed a hand across his jaw, feeling the rasp of day-old beard. “I guess it comes down to Soleil. Bahar went after her father for a reason, so there’s got to be something in his background that we haven’t seen or realized the significance of. Let’s all pray she can figure it out.”

“And if she can’t?”

“Then the world as we know it is about to become a very different place.”

22

MACD LAWLESS MARVELED AT THE RESILIENCY OF children. He’d expected that Pauline would have been traumatized by her abduction and the weeks of captivity, but when they talked about it that first morning she told him that they told her that they were friends of his and that this was part of a secret mission and that if she was a good girl she’d be helping him. She knew her daddy was a war hero and wouldn’t do anything that would get him hurt, so she played along with them. Besides which, they let her eat whatever she wanted and watch television all day and deep into the night.

He considered it a miracle that they had made it so easy for her, but he supposed it was for their own selfish reasons. A compliant child who thought she was helping her father was a lot easier to control than a frightened little girl wailing to go home. That they treated her well in no way made him feel guilty about killing them in cold blood.

That first day, they played on the beach, making sand castles and playing fetch with her dog, Brandy, who MacD suspected she’d missed most of all. Her appetite at mealtimes was normal, and at eight-thirty, when they put her to bed, she drifted off in seconds and slept through the night.

He had no illusions that there couldn’t still be psychological damage, but for now she seemed her normal happy self, especially now that her father was home. He talked with his parents about monitoring her over the weeks and months ahead. When he told them about the Corporation, they knew he had to go back, if for no other reason than to stop the man responsible for their granddaughter’s kidnapping.

He asked about his ex-wife and was told that she hadn’t had contact with Pauline for months. The news didn’t come as a surprise. He’d married her only because she was pregnant, and she skipped out on them when Pauline was two. The only real parents the girl knew were Kay and her husband. She knew MacD was her dad but treated him like a favorite uncle instead, and as long as she was happy that was fine by him.

It was dawn on the third day when trouble struck.

MacD was up early, brewing coffee in the kitchen of the borrowed beachfront cottage. It was located in Mississippi, but far from the hustle and bustle of the gulf cities and towns. It had no electricity without the generator, and water had to be stored in a giant cistern out back, but it was tidy and charmingly furnished.

He had fond memories of coming here when he was a kid and recalled that his first kiss took place in a back bedroom when his family vacationed with the owners, whose daughter was two years his senior.

The kettle on the gas ring was beginning to steam when he heard the distant whup-whup of helicopter blades. It wasn’t an unusual sound, because of their proximity to the offshore oil and gas fields, so he ignored it and opened the jar of instant coffee. But when the sound grew steadily louder, no longer a background thrum but a fast-approaching beat, he extinguished the burner and crossed to the front windows that looked over a two-lane coastal road, a narrow strip of sea grass, and the wide white beach.

The chopper was a massive Black Hawk painted olive drab so that it looked like a military bird, but MacD knew better. Somehow they’d been tracked. It came in low over the swells, its rotor wash whipping up spume. They were so close now that there was no way for him to get his parents and daughter to their car, parked alongside the cottage. He had a single Beretta 9mm from the Houston safe house stashed under his mattress. He ran for his bedroom, yelling to wake his parents. His father emerged from their room, his hair doing an Albert Einstein impression.

“Dad, it’s them,” MacD said, cocking the matte-black pistol. “Get Mom and Pauline and crawl out the back and run. I’ll hold them off for as long as I can.”

He didn’t wait to see if his father followed his instructions. He went back to the front window and peered around its edge. The chopper touched down on the beach, kicking up a maelstrom of sand that completely obscured it. He expected a team of commandos to burst out of the dust storm, automatic weapons chattering. Knowing that the glass would deflect his shots, he smashed out one of the windowpanes and took aim, ready to plug the first figure he saw.

What he hadn’t expected was the chopper blades to begin to slow. Any combat pilot knew to keep the turbines wound up for a fast extraction. The blades continued to decelerate until the clouds of sand settled back to earth. The side door rolled open, and a man in uniform and wearing a flight helmet jumped to the ground. He waited a moment, then helped another man step from the helicopter.

He was elderly, with a shock of white hair and a stoop that had nothing to do with the proximity of the rotor blades. He looked like a banker, in a conservative three-piece suit in navy blue, crisp white shirt, and red tie. MacD didn’t know what to make of this dramatic entrance, but he lowered his weapon and moved to the front door as the aged gentleman made his way across the asphalt road. The chopper’s crewman remained behind.

Warily, MacD swung open the front door and stepped out onto the covered front porch, angling his pistol so that the man could see it.

“That’s close enough,” he called when the stranger reached the nearside shoulder.

“I assure you, Mr. Lawless, that with my hearing it is not.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Langston Overholt IV. I was once Juan Cabrillo’s boss at the CIA, and I’m afraid we need his help.”

MacD recalled the Chairman mentioning his former boss and how the Corporation was hired for quite a few black ops by the legendary spymaster. He safetied his pistol and tucked it into the back of his shorts. The two men met midpoint on the lawn, and Overholt insisted they shake hands.

“It is opportune that you’re here with your family,” Langston said, handing over his identification.

The old Cold Warrior was pushing eighty but had lost none of his mental faculties. The Agency kept him on well past retirement age as a sort of spy emeritus who’d forgotten more about espionage than the current crop of wunderkinder would ever know.

“How did you know who I am?” MacD asked.

“Juan mentioned that he’d hired you, and kept me in the loop about what happened to your daughter. The Corporation’s jet’s tail number was noted in Houston. I put two and two together when I checked the Times-Picayune online and read that, on the day you arrived, three unidentified drug dealers burned in a house fire. I flew to New Orleans and paid a visit to your parents’ house, and when they didn’t answer I asked a neighbor about them. I told the delightful, and talkative, Mrs. Kirby that I suspected you had all l

eft on a hasty vacation and inquired where you might go. She told me that your family sometimes borrows a beach house from an old family friend, one David Werner. The land records gave me this address in all of ten seconds.”