Maps of Hell Read online

  “Roger, eleven. Return to RZ point Charlie. Confirm. Over.”

  “RZ Charlie confirmed. Over and out.”

  I waited for a response, wondering if I’d said anything wrong.

  “Roger, base out.”

  I exhaled hard, then looked down at the man by my feet. He hadn’t moved, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I checked the guy’s belt. There was a sheathed combat knife at the rear. I pulled off his jacket and hacked it into strips. Tying his wrists, I ran the material round the top of the heavy table and secured it. After binding his ankles, I reckoned he was there for the duration. I took the watch from his left wrist. The time was seven forty-one, but there was no date or month display. The cold at night and the relatively short days, along with the yellowing leaves on the occasional deciduous tree, suggested it was autumn.

  I removed a couple of full ammunition clips from the young man’s belt and pulled on my jacket. After I’d laced my boots, hung the compass round my neck and stuffed my jacket pockets with cans of food and drink, I was ready to leave. I took the man’s rifle and pistol with me, as well as my own. They would be stashed in the forest where no one would ever find them. Finally, I dropped the walkie-talkie to the floor and crushed it with my boot—after the bug in my arm, I wasn’t taking any more chances of being located than I had to.

  Going to the door, I had another look around, and then set off. From the heights the day before, I’d seen an area where the forest seemed less dense. If there was any civilization in this godforsaken land, it was that way. The bearing was 170 degrees, well away from where I’d sent my pursuers. I ran across the open ground at medium pace. Sprinting might have attracted attention and, besides, I didn’t want to put too much pressure on my suspect knee. I had an anxious minute before I made the tree line—I was panting more from apprehension than fatigue.

  When I was about fifty yards inside the forest, I stopped and buried the second rifle and pistol under a thick layer of pine needles. I was on my knees with my head bent when I heard the male voice.

  “Keep very still or I’ll drill you a new asshole.”

  I did as I was told, cursing myself. The man I knocked out had identified himself as “unit eleven.” A unit consisted of more than one person. The best I could hope for was that there weren’t more than two.

  “Get your hands up! High!”

  “All right,” I said, my tone as reasonable as I could manage while I slipped the combat knife from my belt.

  “Shut up or you’re dead!”

  I considered pointing out that his superiors might not want me dead, but decided against riling him further.

  “Stay on your knees and turn around. Slowly!”

  I obeyed, feeling the forest mulch soak my trousers. The first thing I noticed was that my captor didn’t have a walkie-talkie or a compass, at least not anywhere obvious. The second was that he was very young, his face dotted with pimples.

  “What did you do to Hans?”

  I played dumb. “I don’t know any Hans,” I said, the knife now up my sleeve.

  “A guy dressed like me?” His tone was less aggressive. He took a step forward. “What’s that you were burying?”

  I ran through the permutations quickly. He obviously hadn’t seen me at the cabin or with his partner, assuming Hans was the guy I’d jumped. If he hadn’t seen the rifle and pistol, he must just have come upon me by chance.

  “Shit,” I said apologetically. “No, really. I always go early in the morning.”

  He stared at me, taking in the compass round my neck. “Where did you get that?” he said, jabbing the rifle’s muzzle at me. “Is it Hans’s?”

  I decided to jack up the pressure. “Oh, now I get it. Hans was the pussy I kicked the crap out of.” I gave a harsh laugh. “You won’t be seeing Hans again.”

  The youth’s cheeks flared and he moved closer, the rifle thrust even closer toward me. One more step…

  “If you’ve hurt Hans, I’ll cut your balls off,” he said, a malevolent glint in his eyes.

  I suddenly realized that, even though he was very young, someone had worked hard to bring out the worst in him.

  I grinned. “You sure that won’t seriously piss off your superior officers?”

  “You can live without balls.” Then he took the step forward that I’d been waiting for. I grabbed hold of the rifle with one hand, wrenching it out of his grip. At the same time, I let the knife slip into my hand. In a second, I had the blade at his throat.

  “But you can’t live without your throat,” I said, breaking the skin above his Adam’s apple.

  “Fuck you, you piece of shit,” he yelled, spraying my face with spittle.

  “Keep your voice down,” I warned, jabbing deeper.

  After a few more seconds, the resistance went out of him and his body slackened.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, my voice softer.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Rank?”

  “Fuck you.”

  I laughed. “Serial number. No, don’t bother, I’ve got the message.” I looked at the letters on his cap badge. “How about this? What’s NANR?”

  This time I’d pressed the right button. “North American National Revival,” he said with undisguised pride.

  “What’s that?”

  He stared at me, but kept quiet.

  “Bad move,” I said, pressing the blade against his neck. Blood began to drip.

  The young man whispered something and I leaned forward to catch it. The first word began with f and the second with y.

  I made good progress through the forest after I’d gagged the young man and tied him to a tree with strips from his jacket. I’d buried the rifles, pistols and other equipment I’d taken from him and from Hans in a heap of needles a good distance from where he was. I wondered how long it would be before he was found, and was thinking that perhaps I’d finally got out of the zone controlled by the men in gray when I was distracted by the sudden sounds of a large animal crashing through the trees.

  A German shepherd came pounding around a tree trunk, its jaws wide and worryingly speckled with foam. I went into automatic response mode and ran straight at the dog rather than waste time trying to bring a weapon to bear. The creature blinked its eyes, but it was too late for it to alter course. With a flick of my hips, I slid past it, having a flash of performing the same maneuver on a muddy pitch with an oval ball in my hands. I kept on running till I came to a thick tree trunk and took cover behind it.

  Looking around the trunk, I saw the dog coming back in my direction. Then its ears pricked as a low voice came through the forest.

  “Prince!”

  I estimated the man to be about twenty yards to the animal’s left. It ran toward him with a yelp. I wasn’t clear whether the handler was aware of Prince’s recent engagement with the enemy. I waited where I was, finger on the trigger. It was still aching from the rat trap, but I reckoned I could take out man and dog if I had to.

  The German shepherd was leaping about, trying to make the dumb human understand what was going on. A gray uniform came into view. I stared. The handler was a woman. And she was stunning, with auburn hair in a plait beneath her cap and a full figure beneath the uniform, which fitted more tightly than did the men’s. Her voice was deep and hoarse, the kind that raises hairs on necks. Shooting her in cold blood wasn’t an attractive prospect.

  Then I heard a crackle of radio static. She had her walkie-talkie turned up loud.

  “Base, unit seventeen. Report, over.”

  She put the device to her ear. “Unit seventeen. All clear. Over.”

  “Proceed to loggers’ cabin. Unit eleven nonresponsive. Confirm. Over.”

  “Unit seventeen, confirm heading to cabin, over.”

  “Exercise extreme caution, seventeen. Remember, target is to be immobilized, not terminated. Base out.”

  I watched as the young woman left in the opposite direction. Pity. Then again, I hadn’t had to terminate her or the German shepherd.
It was only after I’d been under way again for about a quarter of an hour that I remembered what had also struck me about the beautiful young woman. She bore a strong resemblance to the guy I’d dealt with in the cabin—the one called Hans.

  Something else occurred to me: I seemed to have a very well-developed sense of self-preservation.

  Two hours later, I was striding down a slope through the trees. The idea that I was leaving something important behind had filled my mind again. Although I hadn’t heard any pursuers since the woman had turned back, my mood had darkened when it should have done the opposite. I remembered Lucy, my daughter. Where was she? Could the bastards at the camp have her? I stopped in my tracks. Then I thought of the words she had used in the cinema—you-know-who. The problem was, I didn’t know who. I closed my eyes and tried to call up that mysterious individual, my assumed partner. I caught a glimpse of blond hair and—

  The roar of the engine rang through the forest. It was directly ahead of me. I immediately started running in that direction. The sound of revving continued as I got to the tree line. There were only a few yards between me and the rear of a trailer loaded with massive tree trunks.

  A bearded man in blue overalls and heavy boots was lashing the last of the ropes that secured the load. He stepped back and raised his hand to the truck at the front.

  “All right!” he yelled. “Let’s get the hell outta here!” He shifted his large frame toward the cab’s open door. I made out the words Woodbridge Holdings painted over an image of an open newspaper.

  I had only a few seconds to decide if I was going with them. I looked at the back of the trailer, then slung the rifle over my shoulder. There was an even louder noise from the engine and black exhaust streamed from the pipes behind the cab. When I heard the gears engage, I went for it. There were several ropes tied to a steel ring, so I had plenty to grab hold of. I was making a fine target for any gray-uniformed marksmen in the vicinity, but no shots rang out. As the truck bumped down the uneven muddy track, I pulled myself higher and toward the tarp covering the top of the load. With difficulty, I managed to crawl under it, the muzzle of the rifle banging against my head as the trailer rolled to the side alarmingly.

  There were two problems with the place I’d found to hide. The first: if the load overturned on the track I’d be crushed to a pulp. The second: I couldn’t see a thing from beneath the tarp. I managed to take the compass off my neck and check the bearing. Maybe—if I was very lucky—I’d be able to navigate my way back to the camp once I’d found help. I was still gripped by the feeling that I was leaving a vital part of my life behind. I caught another glimpse of blond hair, but recalled nothing else.

  Fifteen

  Richard Bonhoff woke up much later than he did on the farm. The budget hotel he’d found was in the eastern outskirts of Washington, near the beginning of the freeway. He had expected to be kept awake by the traffic noise, but he’d been exhausted when he turned in and had slept deeply. After Gordy Lister had walked out on him in the cocktail bar, he’d spent hours tramping the Mall. The nation’s grandest sights—the White House, the Washington Monument, the Capitol, the Lincoln Memorial—hadn’t impressed him much, even though they were lit up spectacularly. He kept looking at the photo of the twins he’d brought to show Lister, their smiling faces beaming up at him. That didn’t make him happy. Rather, he had struggled to contain his anger. He hadn’t even needed to show Lister the photo. He’d known who the twins where immediately, and he looked guilty as hell. Richard knew exactly what he was going to do.

  After drinking a cup of vile coffee from the machine in his room, he headed out. Now that it was charged, the temptation to check his cell phone was great, but he resisted it. There would be a string of voice messages from Mel, each nastier in tone and content than the previous one. He didn’t need the hassle. But then it struck him that the twins might have been in touch. He checked, cutting off the three messages his wife had left as soon as he heard her voice. As he’d suspected, there was nothing from Gwen and Randy.

  Richard retrieved the pickup and headed down New York Avenue to the center. He left the vehicle in a multistory lot around the corner from the newspaper office. The parking charges were killing him.

  He took a seat at a coffee-shop window and kept his eyes on the Woodbridge Holdings building. There was no sign of Lister. The place filled up and he was told he had to buy something else if he wanted to keep the table. After four hours and a selection of overpriced drinks and snacks, Richard was down to his last ten dollars in cash, but he couldn’t risk leaving to find an ATM—he couldn’t even risk going to the can. By four o’clock he was getting desperate.

  Then Gordy Lister came out of the building. He was wearing the same tan jacket, and high-heeled cowboy boots. He looked to right and left, and Richard realized the small man was nervous. Could it be that he’d spooked him by asking about the twins?

  Richard got up and headed outside when Lister went left. He felt a stabbing in his bladder, but ignored the pain. Keeping about twenty yards back, he did his best to merge into the crowd of people in expensive clothes. When his target took another left turn, it struck him that maybe he was heading for the car park where the pickup was. That was how it played out. Richard decided to make a dash for his vehicle. He had no way of knowing which level Lister had parked on, so he could only hope they would reach the exit barrier around the same time.

  His pickup would make a very obvious tail, but there was nothing he could do. He paid the ticket, using his credit card, and gunned the engine. The suspension strained as he took the narrow corners too fast, but he was in luck. Lister, driving a dark blue BMW roadster, was only one car ahead of him at the barrier.

  Richard tried to drop back when he hit the street, provoking a horn blast from a young woman in a Japanese sports car. There was nothing for it but to keep closer to Lister than he’d have liked. He was relieved to see that the newspaper man was talking animatedly into his cell phone.

  The roadster headed north. Richard was surprised at how quickly the smart buildings of the city center were replaced by dilapidated tenements. A few minutes later, a sign told him he was in Shaw. He’d heard the name on the local TV news back at the hotel. There had been a murder here last night, some guy who ran a black-magic shop, according to the overexcited reporter.

  The traffic in the narrow streets was heavy and Lister had no chance to exercise the horsepower under his bonnet, meaning that Richard was still close behind. He was sweating, under attack from his bladder and worried that he would be spotted. He glanced around and saw a trio of young black men on the sidewalk. They were pointing at the pickup and laughing.

  The line of cars hadn’t moved much farther when Lister made a right and drove down a side street. By the time Richard had followed, the roadster had vanished. He pounded the wheel and drove on, looking desperately to right and left. Then he saw the BMW in an even narrower street to the right and slammed on the brakes.

  Richard turned, then left the pickup in the middle of the road—it was a dead end and there were no spaces at the curb. He walked toward Lister’s car, which was parked at the end of the street. When he got there, he saw it was empty but then noticed that the door of the neighboring house was ajar. He heard his target’s voice.

  “No!” Lister screamed. “Don’t hurt me!”

  Richard went to the door and listened. The screams continued. He went in and took some stairs that led downward at the end of the hall. There was a smell of fried food and dope, cut with a stink like the cattle shed back home. He made no sound as he went down. There was a single door to his left. It, too, was half-open.

  “Jesus, don’t hit me anymore.” Lister was pleading. “I’ll get the money for you, I promise.”

  There was a heavy slap, followed by a pathetic squeal.

  Richard shoved the door open and stepped into the room.

  He was instantly grabbed by two large men in white T-shirts. They had shaven heads and tattoos on their thick arm
s. Lister was sitting in a battered armchair, cleaning his nails with a tooth pick.

  “Hey, Iowa,” he said, looking up. “What the fuck are you doing on my ass?”

  Richard stared at him. “But…but I thought…”

  Lister laughed. “You thought? I wasn’t sure folks did that out there in Hicksville.”

  The big men laughed.

  “Give him a couple,” Lister said, casually.

  Two heavy fists smashed into Richard’s solar plexus in rapid succession. He dropped to one knee and felt a warm gush in his crotch.

  “Oh, Jesus, Gordy,” the hulk on the right said, “he’s pissed himself.”

  All three men laughed, Lister almost hysterically.

  Richard felt a blush of shame ignite on his face. He blinked hard and struggled to contain himself.

  “Pick him up,” Lister said, stepping closer. “My, my, Mr. Farmer. Your missus ain’t going to be pleased with the state of your pants.”

  The big men laughed again.

  “Let him go,” Lister said. “Iowa and me need to chew the fat.”

  Richard took a deep breath as his arms were released. Then he ducked down and crunched his elbows into the groins of Lister’s muscle men. They both keeled over. He smashed his knee into each of their faces as they dropped. Then he pulled the matte black pistol from the belt of the unconscious man on his left and racked the slide.

  Lister had retreated to the far wall at speed. He was fumbling in his waistband, but gave up when he saw Richard bearing down on him, pistol raised.

  “Put it on the floor.”

  Gordy Lister removed his snub-nosed revolver and laid it down carefully, a finger in the trigger guard. “Jeez, Iowa. Where’d you learn those moves?”