Split second, p.2
Split Second, page 2
Jenna’s mind raced. The man hadn’t made an explicit threat, nor had he drawn a gun. But then again, he didn’t have to. She had no doubt that just one of these men, unarmed, could probably best her and Nathan if they both had machine guns in their hands.
What had Nathan discovered? How did they know about it so quickly? And Nathan had said his discovery was largely theoretical, with unclear real-world applications, so why the intense interest?
“We’ll be leaving in a moment,” said the gang’s spokesman. “Apologies again, but we first need to take care of a few things.”
He nodded toward his two companions who began to carry out what were obviously pre-planned tasks. The blond made his way to Wexler’s desktop computer and produced a small screwdriver, expertly dismantling the computer and removing the hard drive in less than a minute.
His colleague searched the house for several minutes and returned holding Wexler’s laptop. “I’ve confirmed that he only has the one desktop and one laptop, as per our intel,” he reported. “I’ve also removed all of our bugs.”
The tall man nodded while Jenna’s heart leaped to her throat. They had been bugged? For how long? And why?
But if this was about Nathan’s recent discovery, she reasoned, he had only spoken of it out loud minutes earlier. They couldn’t possibly have carried out an operation with this little notice. The conclusion was inescapable. Along with the bugs, they must have been monitoring Nathan’s phone and computers as well. Nathan had told her that he had sent an e-mail about his discovery to Dan Walsh recently. This must have set the wheels of this raid on their home in motion.
The tall man lifted a phone to his face. No 3D image hovered in the space before him, which meant he had purposely kept the call audio-only. “I trust you’ve copied everything in Wexler’s cloud storage account, correct?” he said into the phone.
He listened to the response, which must have been an affirmative. “Great. Go ahead and wipe the account, then,” he ordered, and then ended the call.
He turned to the two scientists. “I’m afraid I need you to give me your phones,” he said, holding out his hand.
Jenna glanced at Nathan. He blew out a long breath and nodded, handing the tall spokesman his phone, and Jenna followed suit. Once this was done, the man gestured toward the front door, ignoring Jenna’s laptop that was still packed in her carry-on luggage. She was somehow certain that these men knew her laptop was there, but had no interest in any of her work.
“I’d love to be civilized,” said the tall intruder, clearly the group’s leader and spokesman. “So can I count on the two of you not to scream or attract attention? These actions won’t change a thing, and I’m sure you’d prefer not to be gagged. We’ll be gone before anyone can intervene or call the cops.” He shrugged. “And to be honest, even if they do, it won’t matter.”
He said it with such a total air of certainty that it was impossible for Jenna not to believe him.
3
The La Jolla night sky was cloudless, as usual, and the display of stars would have been awe-inspiring under normal circumstances. As it was, Jenna fought to calm herself and become a dispassionate and clinical observer and thinker.
The physical and mental exhaustion she had been feeling had been obliterated by repeated surges of adrenaline and she was hyper-alert as the group of five rounded the block, stopping before a semi. The truck was small for an eighteen-wheeler, but it was still an eighteen-wheeler, a fish out of water in a residential neighborhood. It dominated the street like the rare moving vans that would visit the neighborhood every few years.
As if the night hadn’t been surreal enough, the truck had the words Hostess Cakes emblazoned in blue on both sides. Several red hearts were arrayed around this logo, and large images of cupcakes, Ho Hos, and Twinkies adorned the outside of the vehicle. While the sky was moonless, the star field was just bright enough for her to make out these decorations, as well as the truck’s license plate, which she memorized.
Another man was already seated in the driver’s seat of the cab, apparently waiting for his three colleagues to return. The back of the truck was open and dimly illuminated, and they were led up a ramp and inside.
Three more men were waiting there, sitting against one wall, and nods were exchanged as their two colleagues came into view in the back of the truck.
Wexler turned to the short, stocky man beside him and arched one eyebrow. “Sure you brought enough men?” he said sarcastically.
“Yeah, this is total overkill,” admitted the man with a shrug. “I’ll give you that. But take this as a compliment, Dr. Wexler. It’s a measure of your importance.”
The shorter man, clearly the team’s second-in-command, motioned for them to take a seat on the wall opposite his three associates, and they complied. He parked Wexler’s hard drive and laptop beside him, and he and his blond partner sat next to their colleagues on the wall opposite the two prisoners as well. Seconds later the truck’s engine roared to life and the large vehicle pulled away from the curb, beginning its mysterious journey.
Heavy equipment of unknown type was stacked against the back wall of the windowless trailer and strapped tight, and each of their captors had large nylon duffel bags resting beside them. Jenna had no idea what was inside these bags, but it wasn’t a shipment of Twinkies or Ho Hos, of that she was certain. She guessed weaponry of some kind, although their captors had yet to point a gun in their direction and continued to try to maintain the illusion that their cooperation was voluntary.
Jenna stared at the stocky man and forced a smile. “Surely you can tell us something,” she said. “I get that your boss wants to control the discussion with Dr. Wexler. But what’s the harm in telling us where we’re going? I mean, we are American citizens, after all, and you’re military, right?”
The man smiled and shook his head. “Nice try. You can assume anything you’d like. But I still can’t tell you anything more. But rest easy. You won’t be harmed, and answers are only a few hours away.”
Jenna frowned at this response, but also realized her attempt had not been entirely futile. At least they had a sense that their journey in the back of a semi would be a relatively short one.
The truck made a number of turns as it worked its way out of residential areas. Within ten minutes they accelerated up what must have surely been a freeway onramp, and less than an hour later they began climbing steadily. While there were a number of mountains and mountain ranges near San Diego, after twenty minutes of steadily increasing elevation their current location was clear. Only one mountain was this tall and this close: Palomar.
Palomar Mountain State Park was only about sixty miles northeast of San Diego, although winding one’s way up a mountain with an elevation of over six thousand feet was slow going, so the trip could take as long as ninety minutes to two hours. The park was densely wooded with oak trees and any number of conifers, including pine, cedar, and fir, as well as large numbers of ferns.
The mountain’s chief claim to fame, stationed near its top, was the Palomar Observatory, home to the Hale Telescope, for many decades considered the most important telescope in the world.
After five additional minutes of slowly winding up the corkscrew road, the driver slammed on the brakes, and the inhabitants of the trailer were all jerked several feet toward the cab, fighting to regain their balance and find a handhold on one of the straps hanging down from the walls.
“Change of plans,” said a disembodied male voice, one that was tense and agitated, no doubt the driver communicating via some kind of speaker system. “Our forward car spotted an assault team a mile ahead. They’ll try to hold them off while we backtrack down the mountain. We can’t rule out that we’ll run into a flanking team behind us, so prepare for imminent action. We’re calling in reinforcements.”
The reaction inside the trailer was immediate and frenzied. The men removed compact submachine guns and numerous clips the size of cigarette cartons from their nylon duffels and readied themselves for a possible assault. Several of them voiced variations of the phrase, “what the fuck?” with great agitation, as the truck reversed course, hurtling dangerously back along the narrow road that corkscrewed down the mountain. The residents of the back of the truck all clutched straps and hung on for dear life, but were still thrown this way and that with considerable force.
“What is going on?” demanded Jenna, unable to control her frayed nerves any longer, her words screeched out more than spoken.
“Don’t know,” said the man in charge as he continued to prepare for whatever might be coming. “We know there’s a rival group out there. But there is no way they could know about this op. No way,” he repeated in dismay. “This was supposed to be routine. A milk run. Our large force of men and spotter car were just standard precautions. We weren’t expecting any trouble.”
“That’s very comforting,” grunted Wexler, clutching at a strap he shared with Jenna as the truck continued careening down the mountain.
Then, from out of nowhere, their small stretch of Palomar Mountain State Park became a war zone.
The driver slammed on the brakes once again, almost yanking Jenna’s arm from its socket as she fought to retain her grip on the handhold, as horrifying sounds of explosions and heavy gunfire filled the trailer. The forces on the braking Hostess delivery truck became too great for it to hold its line, and it fishtailed. The trailer slammed over onto its side and left the road, shearing away from the cab and sliding down a steep slope.
Inside the trailer, bodies flew in every direction, and the machinery at the back of the trailer tore loose from its bonds and collided randomly with the inhabitants. After ten or fifteen seconds of this, the sliding trailer slammed into a line of evenly spaced tree trunks and came to a rest against them, on its side and at a thirty-five-degree angle.
The trailer’s light had been extinguished immediately during the slide, and they had been tumbled in absolute darkness, as though stuffed inside a massive clothes dryer filled with heavy objects.
As gunfire continued to rain around them, one of their captors managed to produce a glow stick and crack it open, and two others soon followed suit, providing enough illumination for Jenna to take stock. She had several minor cuts and abrasions but was largely unscathed. Two of their five captors were unconscious, and from the blood leaking from their heads, were most likely dead.
And both of Nathan’s legs had been broken!
He was alive, but something heavy had crashed into his lower body with incredible force. He was groaning in agony, his legs splayed in awkward positions. A bone poked through his lower right leg, which was bleeding profusely.
She slid over and put her hands under his head, lifting it slightly, as tears rolled down her face. The sound of machine gun fire continued to echo through the trailer.
“How bad is it?” asked Nathan, his voice thin and reedy.
Jenna was glad Nathan had known enough not to look at his legs himself, which might have sent him reeling into shock. “Not so bad,” she lied through her tears. “Nothing a few good doctors can’t patch up good as new,” she added, forcing a smile.
She had to keep him as relaxed as possible. Keep his mindset positive.
While she spoke, their three remaining captors, all of them more or less healthy, had affixed sophisticated night vision goggles to their faces, pulled, no doubt, from their mysterious bags. “McFadden, you’re with me,” said one of the men, who immediately slid toward the trailer door, with someone who must have been McFadden following.
The door had been designed to slide up and down, but now had to be forced from left to right in the capsized trailer. “Simkin,” barked the man now in charge, as both he and McFadden pulled the door open enough for them to leave, “you stay here and watch our guests. And don’t forget the stakes we’re playing for,” he added grimly.
Just as the two men exited the trailer there was another burst of gunfire, at point-blank range, and Jenna had no doubt they had been ambushed as they tried to leave.
Seconds later a voice called into the truck. “Simkin,” it said. “I only want to relieve you of Dr. Wexler. There is no need for you to die. Lay down your arms and I’ll leave you in peace.”
Simkin didn’t reply, but his eyes frantically surveyed the tumbled contents of the trailer. In seconds he found what he was looking for, Wexler’s hard drive and laptop, and put several bursts of automatic fire into each of them, ensuring that not even the best forensic computer specialist on Earth could get anything useful from them.
Upon hearing these shots, the men outside moved in and began firing at him.
But instead of returning fire, Simkin did the unexpected. The unthinkable.
As bullets tore into his body, he reached out and yanked at Jenna, sending her sliding away from the man she loved, and in the same motion, with his other hand, he pointed his weapon at Wexler’s head.
Then, as his last act before finally succumbing to death, the man named Simkin sent a burst of rounds into the magnificent brain of Dr. Nathan Wexler, instantly and totally obliterating one of the greatest minds in history.
4
Jenna Morrison heard a bloodcurdling scream and realized a moment later that it was coming from her own mouth.
The two intruders slid along the smooth trailer wall until they were directly in front of where Jenna had been moments earlier, surveying the carnage.
Simkin and Nathan Wexler were both dead, although Wexler’s head was a bloody pulp, unrecognizable, turning him into nothing but a torso and a pair of bloody, shattered legs. Crimson liquid had sprayed everywhere and puddles collected at various locations in the trailer, drawn there by the inexorable pull of gravity.
“God-dammit!” shrieked one of the men, sounding almost as anguished as Jenna, who had only avoided vomiting because she had nothing in her stomach. “Fuck!”
“Jenna, come with me,” said one of the men, turning to her. “I’ll protect you.”
Her eyes were unfocused and she made no sign of comprehension.
“Jenna, come on! Jenna,” he repeated for a third time. “Snap out of it!”
The man’s words were incomprehensible to her. She felt numb, paralyzed, and it seemed as though she was hearing everything through ten miles of cotton, including the never-ending barrage of gunfire going on in the woods outside. Her mind and her psyche were unable to process Nathan’s barbaric and sudden death.
Just that morning she had been with her sister and niece in Chicago. Only hours ago with Nathan in her cozy home in La Jolla.
And now?
Now she was in the bowels of hell. In the middle of a war zone. In a beautiful state park in California that might as well have been Afghanistan or Iran.
Nathan was dead! Just like that. The love of her life. With his mighty intellect spread all over the back of a cupcake truck. How could this be happening?
She only gradually became aware that the world had taken on a green glow, several seconds after the man who had spoken to her had finished affixing night vision goggles to her head, his actions having failed to register with her at all.
“Jenna, come on!” he implored once again. “God-dammit!” He slapped her in the face, hard. “Come on! Getting yourself killed won’t bring back Dr. Wexler,” he said, slapping her a second time.
This time the pain finally registered and she was sparked back to reality once again. His last sentence now drilled into her returning consciousness.
He was right. She couldn’t bring Nathan back. But she could find out what this was all about and why it had happened. She could, somehow, make sure those responsible roasted in hell.
“My name is Andy,” said her rescuer, having looked into her eyes and realizing his slaps had pulled her back from the abyss. “Andy Cavnar. I’ll make sure you’re safe from these bastards. But you have to come with me.”
She allowed the man to pull her toward the exit, letting her eyes focus for the first time, surprised by just how vivid the neon green world appeared through the night vision headset.
They slid out of the truck with Cavnar’s partner in tow. She vaguely became aware of the ferocious whipping of helicopter blades thundering through the cool night air. She realized a moment later that the large aircraft responsible was hovering above the treetops, not twenty-five yards away, showing up with surprising clarity in her goggles.
Cavnar rushed her away from the trailer, but they were still on uneven, acutely sloped terrain, and Jenna collapsed to the ground, unable to fight off a bout of dizziness that had suddenly engulfed her.
Dizziness that saved her life.
Four men were now sliding down ropes that had dropped from the helicopter, firing as they did so, spraying the area she was in at chest height. One of her two escorts was nearly torn in half as she hugged the cool, pinecone-strewn ground, while Andy Cavnar fell to the forest floor beside her, shot in the leg.
Even before the four rappellers touched the ground they were engaged from behind, giving Cavnar a reprieve and Jenna the few seconds she needed to regain her senses, and her equilibrium.
Cavnar fired at the four men, now caught in a crossfire, as another group of four began to descend from the helicopter. He paused for a moment, shoving his partner’s compact submachine gun into Jenna’s hands. “Go!” he commanded. “Run!”
Jenna took a deep breath and clutched tightly at the weapon. Crouching low, driven by adrenaline and a stronger survival instinct than she had guessed she possessed, she half-ran, half-skidded down the wooded slope as quickly as she could, while Cavnar brought his gun into the battle once again.
Jenna turned every so often to look over her shoulder. The gunfire had become sporadic, as though the two forces had annihilated each other, with no one left standing. One of the dying combatants had managed to put a bullet into the helicopter and it was belching black smoke, forced to limp away so it wouldn’t crash into the trees and burst into a fireball.
