Freefall Read online

  “Stay where you are!” a voice said through the chopper’s loudspeaker.

  Ash ignored it and pressed on, the bike’s powerful wheels throwing up clouds of pale dust. She turned again, almost losing control of the machine as the front wheel collided with a spearhead of hard rock, but she squeezed the throttle and the bike shot up the remainder of the rise, and caught some air as it crested the summit. Ash’s whole body shook, and sharp pain shot through her neck as the motorcycle landed with a heavy thud. She was on a small plateau, and the tires chewed the soft, tufty grass as she made for the forest beyond, ignoring the helicopter buzzing low overhead. She banked right, joining a trail that snaked into the trees, then accelerated, standing on the foot rests as the bike bucked and shuddered over the uneven ground. Within moments, she felt the cool shadow of the forest upon her and glanced up to see that she was covered by thick canopy. She was pleased to hear the chopper moving away. It zigzagged through the sky as its occupants tried to catch sight of her, but the thick mesh of leaves offered Ash shelter, and she slowed the bike as she carefully followed the trail that led her away from her pursuers.

  The trail took Ash east and she emerged from the tree line into the backyard of a large country house. There were no vehicles in the half-moon driveway and no signs of life inside, so Ash sped across the lawn, along the driveway, and down the private road that led away from the building. She could hear the distant purr of the helicopter, but saw no sign of it as the bike devoured the narrow road that cut between ranks of high trees. She slowed as she rounded a bend and came to an intersection. She recognized Highway 41 and turned left, heading north toward the motel.

  She passed a number of cars but there was no sign of the police. As she followed the winding highway through the rich countryside, Ash tried to compose herself. Realizing she was no longer in immediate danger of being captured, she set her mind to figuring out how she and Wallace would leave town. They couldn’t use the motorbike for any length of time. By now a description would have been circulated throughout the state. The local police department would almost certainly canvass the area, so the motel wouldn’t be safe for much longer. Their best bet would be to head into open country until nightfall and then try to hitch a ride out of town. North or south, it didn’t matter, they just needed to reach somewhere they could pick up a new car.

  The woodland to Ash’s left gave way to a modern mini-mall, and its brash store signs came and went in an instant before being replaced by an exclusive housing development. As the bike raced on, the houses blurred into yet more forest and the road banked right, before the trees thinned, and then suddenly opened to reveal the Summers Inn. Ash slowed and turned left, pulling into the motel driveway. She’d just straightened up and was heading for a parking space when she heard an engine roar behind her. A siren screamed to life, but before she could react, the motorcycle was shunted out from beneath her, and she flipped high into the air before landing heavily, the force of the impact knocking the wind from her lungs. As she lay, face down in the dirt, Ash heard movement behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a police officer emerge from another Ford, the sun shining on his skinhead.

  “Freeze!” he yelled. “Put your hands where I can see them!”

  The skinhead drew his pistol and aimed it at her face as he approached.

  “Dispatch, this is two-seven, I have the suspect in custody. I repeat, I have the suspect in custody,” he said with the swollen pride of a big game hunter. “If you so much as blink, I’ll shoot you dead,” he told Ash. “Put your hands behind your back.”

  Ash complied. There was no way she was going to die face down in the dirt at the hands of some trigger-happy flatfoot.

  45

  Wallace was on his way out of the bathroom when he heard the commotion. He went to the window but couldn’t get a clear view of what was happening, so he opened the door to the room and immediately regretted his decision. The parking lot was filling up with police: there were already two cruisers, and an SUV was joining them. Wallace thought about slamming the door shut, but that might draw the attention of the growing number of onlookers. People stood outside the adjacent rooms, and a small crowd had gathered at the edge of the parking lot, drawn from the home improvement shop across the street. Wallace’s stomach lurched as he saw who one of the police officers, a bald, hard-faced man, was hauling off the ground: Christine Ash. Her dust-encrusted face scanned the motel, and when she caught sight of Wallace standing in the doorway, she held his gaze and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head as if to say, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Wallace wanted to rush out there, disarm the men, rescue Ash, and escape together, but he knew that in reality, he would end up in cuffs beside her. His mind ran through the possibilities but he couldn’t think of anything that he could do. He didn’t have a weapon, he was outnumbered, and Ash had made it clear that she didn’t want him to jeopardize his safety. Ash was strong, the strongest person he knew. She had a resilience that Wallace had never seen in anyone else, and he felt certain she knew what she was doing. As he tried to process what was happening, his head went light. He was struggling to understand how Ash had wound up in handcuffs, battered, dazed, and under arrest.

  He blinked and focused on Ash, who was trying to catch his attention before the bald officer led her away. She looked at him intently, as though she was willing him to understand something, and he saw that her hands, which were cuffed behind her back, were clasped together and that her index fingers were pointing to a dirt bike that was lying on its side on the edge of the motel parking lot. There’s something in the bike, Wallace thought, and he nodded at Ash as she was pushed into the back of the police car.

  The bald police officer climbed into the driver’s seat and the cruiser pulled away. Ash didn’t look back, but Wallace watched her until the car was out of sight, feeling hollow, as though his innards had been dragged with her. Two of the remaining four officers moved the motorcycle onto the shoulder, and one of them pulled the key from the ignition and stuck a police sticker on the fuel tank, while his colleague radioed for a tow truck.

  Wallace watched as the four police officers got into their vehicles and drove away. Once they were out of sight, the onlookers drifted back to their normal lives, the sensational interlude over.

  He hurried across the parking lot toward the abandoned motorcycle. He searched the first pannier, which was empty, and then strained to flip the bike over, exposing the other side. He looked over his shoulder and saw that one of his neighbors, a gray-haired woman in a bright green pullover, was watching him from her window.

  “You need a hand?”

  Wallace glanced round to see Jeb Harlan emerging from the manager’s office. His mouth was stretched in a smile, but Wallace could sense that the man was puzzled to find him plundering the impounded bike.

  “I’m OK,” Wallace replied.

  “Cops? What’s been goin’ on?” Jeb asked, noting the police sticker. “I heard a ruckus, but I was in the john.”

  “The police arrested a dangerous driver,” Wallace said. “I thought they might have missed something hidden in the bike.”

  “You’re English,” Jeb noted. “I didn’t catch that when you checked in. Your girlfriend did most of the talking. But then don’t they always?” he added with a cheeky wink. “Don’t let my wife know I said that.”

  Wallace stood watching the old man, aware of the growing, uncomfortable silence.

  “Well, go on then,” Jeb urged. “Look in the saddlebag.”

  Wallace smiled awkwardly and nodded, before reaching inside. He felt something hard and rough, and pulled out a book. It looked like a journal.

  “What is it?” Jeb asked as he approached.

  Wallace opened the book to find a collection of photographs of Mike Rosen and his Army buddies.

  “That’s the Rosen kid,” Jeb announced. “Local war hero,” he noted as he peered at the pictures. “Green Beret,” he said conspiratorially.


  Wallace flicked through the pages trying to figure out what lie he could tell the motel manager, realizing that his options would be severely limited by the fact that Jeb knew Mike Rosen. His mind went blank when he saw a face that had haunted his nightmares. A little over halfway through the book was a picture of Rosen with a squad of men. Wallace recognized Pendulum—Max Byrne—and the man who’d said he was Byrne’s nurse at the Cromwell Center, Ethan somebody, but none of the faces bothered him in the same way as the one he recognized from his time in Rikers. There, looking back at him, was Smokie, the Blood gang member who almost gutted him during a riot in the notorious jail. Wallace’s mind raced with the implications of what he held in his hand, and he realized why Ash had wanted him to have it: it was proof positive that Pendulum had not been working alone. He was transfixed by the image, his mind overwhelmed by speculation and conjecture. Why had these men helped Max? Had Smokie gone to jail deliberately in order to try to kill him? Why had Rosen tried to murder him in Afghanistan? What had the men been doing when Ash had disturbed them in Byrne’s bunker? Was he up against the entire unit?

  “We’d better turn it in,” Jeb suggested, intruding on Wallace’s thoughts.

  “Yeah,” Wallace agreed. “I can run it down to the station if you give me directions.”

  Something about the way Jeb eyed him made Wallace feel uncomfortable.

  “I’d better do it. I know the chief pretty well. I can explain why we went rooting around the bike,” Jeb said pointedly. “Let me just lock up the office.”

  Wallace could almost have collapsed with relief as Jeb produced a set of keys and jogged toward the office. While the old man hung a “Back in 5 Minutes” sign on the door, Wallace carefully peeled the photograph off the page and stuffed it into his back pocket. Jeb shut the office and by the time he returned, the journal was closed and there was no sign of anything untoward. Wallace handed it over with a forced smile, desperately hoping that there was nothing else Ash wanted him to see.

  “Thanks,” Jeb said. “I’ll be sure to mention you were the one who found it. William Porter, wasn’t it?” he asked, seeking confirmation of Wallace’s false name.

  “Yeah, but I don’t need any credit,” Wallace protested.

  “Well, you’re gonna get some,” Jeb beamed broadly as he headed toward his truck.

  Wallace watched and waved as the old man drove his battered pick-up out of the lot. Jeb was the one person who could link him to Ash, and he’d just sent the man straight to the police. Once Jeb was out of sight, Wallace hurried into the motel room and shut the door. He pulled out his phone and checked the memory for the number Ash had emailed him. He fed the room payphone with quarters and dialed.

  “Reeves,” a man’s voice answered.

  “I’m a friend of Christine’s,” Wallace said. “We spoke a couple of days ago.”

  “Is she OK?” Reeves asked.

  “No. She’s been taken into custody by the Summersville Police. We’re in West Virginia,” Wallace replied. “I’m worried she might end up in the wrong hands.”

  “I’ll get on it,” Reeves assured him. “And you? Do you want to come in, Mr. Wallace?”

  The sound of his name filled Wallace with panic. Had Ash told him? Had he figured it out? Was he part of Pendulum?

  “I’m better on my own. Don’t let anything happen to her.”

  “I won’t,” Reeves said.

  Wallace hesitated. “I mean it,” he added finally.

  “You have my word,” Reeves replied. “She’ll be OK.”

  Wallace hung up, feeling every inch the failure. Ash had saved his life multiple times, and he was going to leave her. He didn’t have her training or knowledge, and any rescue attempt would almost certainly end in disaster, with both of them either in custody or dead. At least this way he had a chance of getting to the truth, and that was their best hope.

  Praying that Ash knew what she was doing and that she was right to say he could trust Deon Reeves, Wallace stepped out of the motel room and fled north.

  PART TWO

  46

  Smokie sat back and thought about the night that was never far from his mind. His mother’s junkie boyfriend, Angel, had brought three gangbangers to their apartment. Each man paid Angel fifty dollars so that he’d hold Smokie’s mother down while they raped her. Smokie was twelve. He’d been woken by his mother’s screams and had come running, fists flailing, yelling for help from deadbeat neighbors who would never answer. He’d tried to grab a kitchen knife, but the gangsters, big men with heavy hands and hate-filled eyes, had beaten him senseless. As he’d lain on the floor, drifting in and out of consciousness, listening to his mother’s screams turning to pained whimpers, Smokie had realized what he’d long suspected: the world was rotten.

  Just thinking about that night made him boil. It was his spider bite, his Peter Parker moment of transformation, a memory that was always there to be called upon whenever he needed the power to be righteous. He’d used it to beat down kids at school, his anger fueling him to take on thugs twice his size. He’d called upon it when he’d joined the Bloods, and his rage had earned him a fearsome reputation that had propelled him up the ranks. The memory had also driven him to track down Angel and the three men who’d set his mother on her path to an early death. In one bloody night of horror, aged sixteen, Smokie had killed all four of them. By then, Smokie had seen enough pain to know that the world really was rotten and that people were sick and deserved nothing but suffering.

  He stared at the face of Steven Byrne, which was frozen on the screen in the corner of Smokie’s office. He had just finished watching a recording of Byrne’s testimony at the Senate hearing and was surprised that the weak man hadn’t changed his tune. He’d kept his promise and supported the bill. That’s because he doesn’t know what’s coming, Smokie told himself. He still thinks he can salvage something good.

  He looked across the office that Steven Byrne’s money had bought and watched his men shooting the breeze. BB and Jackie were talking shit about the Mets, and Downlo was checking his phone. He didn’t trust any of them, not even Jackie, the vicious, toothless brawler who’d had his back in Rikers. Life had taught him that every friend was only ever one fix away from betrayal. It didn’t need to be drugs. Money, girls, religion, everyone had a weakness that would eventually turn them traitor.

  “Can you believe this motherfucker?” Smokie asked.

  All three men instantly faced him.

  “Look at him carrying on like normal. After the shit he tried to pull?”

  Jackie, BB, and Downlo nodded agreement, but before they could say anything, there was a knock at the door, and Pope, one of the old guard, entered.

  “We found Christine Ash,” Pope announced.

  “Where?” Smokie asked.

  “Summersville, West Virginia,” Pope replied. “I’m on my way.”

  “No,” Smokie said. “I’m gonna handle this personally. It’s time she and I met. I want you focused on finding Steven Byrne. Me and that old motherfucker need to talk.”

  Ethan Pope could only nod. As he surveyed the three gangsters who sat around the coffee table, he wondered how something that had started with such high ideals could have got so lost. He’d genuinely believed in the Foundation, that it was a force for good, but after the things he’d seen, he’d finally realized that he’d helped to create something truly dangerous. And his eighteen-month absence, posing as a nurse, had enabled Smokie to consolidate his power.

  Smokie. They’d had him all wrong. Ethan looked at him across the large office. The gangster turned soldier turned demagogue’s face now seemed locked in a permanent sneer, as though he could no longer be bothered to mask the evil. There had been a time when he and Smokie had been close, when, like the rest of the unit, Ethan had believed him to be genuine in his desire to help the poor, to do something to fight inequality.

  Now Ethan suspected there had never been any benevolent aim and Smokie had always only been interested in the acquis
ition of power. Power which he now had, thanks to the support the unit had given him, and the money he had talked out of Steven Byrne.

  “I should be there when you bring her in,” Ethan suggested.

  “No,” Smokie replied coldly. “I told you, I want you on Byrne. I’m gonna handle Ash myself.”

  Ethan suppressed a shudder and nodded again, before withdrawing and closing the door behind him. As he walked along the corridor that led to his office on the other side of the building, he tried not to think about the dangerous game he was playing. Instead, he concentrated on his need to fix the terrible mistake he’d made.

  47

  “My name is Christine Ash. I’m a senior special agent with the FBI’s New York Field Office. You need to call Special Agent in Charge David Harrell. He’ll vouch for me.”

  The skinhead said nothing as he steered the police cruiser into the heart of Summersville. The chatter of a radio dispatcher filled the silence.

  “Are you listening to me, Officer Bernard?” Ash challenged him, recalling his name-badge. “Hey!”

  “Settle down, Missy,” Bernard drawled, his voice oozing overconfidence. “You’ve been read your rights. That’s all I’m obliged to do. Rest is for the higher-ups.”

  “Listen to me, Officer . . .”

  “No, you listen to me,” Bernard spoke harshly, glaring at Ash in the rearview mirror. “If it were up to me you’d be . . .” He trailed off, his words stifled by the strength of his hatred.

  “I’d be what?” Ash asked.

  “Never mind.” He shook his head. “They warned us you’d be tricky. Now why don’t you go ahead and shut up till you ain’t my problem no more.”