"Enjoy your weekend."
Hal Brognola glanced up from his open briefcase and returned his secretary's smile. "Still here?"
"I'm playing catch-up with the files."
"Forget it. You can get it done on Monday." Putting on a phony scowl, he told her gruffly, "Anyway, we can't afford the overtime."
"You talked me into it. Good night."
He spun the combination lock on his valise and double-checked his watch against the ugly, standard-issue wall clock opposite his desk. It was approaching six o'clock, and he was running late. As usual.
Without a backward glance he put the place behind him, fighting an urge to click his heels. The three-day weekend beckoned irresistibly, but Hal had more than simple rest and relaxation on his mind. The kids and Helen would be on the road by now, perhaps already at their destination, waiting for him. Anxious to be with them, he signed out, leaving the number where he could be reached in case of an emergency.
It had been too damned long since he and his family had any time together, free from work, school and the countless other things that separate a man, unwillingly, from those he loves. Despite the fact that he had been with Helen almost every day and night for twenty-seven years, he never saw enough of her. As for the kids...
Brognola stopped himself and grinned unconsciously. The "kids" were both in college now, adults with lives and secrets of their own. The man from Justice was intensely proud of them, secure in their maturity and sense of purpose, but experience had taught him that the world was dangerous, full of predators relentlessly in search of prey. Their mother worried openly — it was a woman's inalienable right — but gender and his temperament prevented Hal from expressing his concerns aloud. He had no doubt that Helen was aware of his private fears — she could see through him, always had — but she was generous enough to keep the knowledge locked away. When Jeff went out for football, when Eileen wrote home about the great new guy that she was dating, Helen clucked and frowned and voiced her hope that they would each proceed with caution. Hal, for his part, grumbled that the kids were old enough to take care of themselves and hid his concern behind the pages of the Post or New York Times— hid his concern from everyone except Helen, who missed nothing.
Christmas break and spring vacation were the only times they came together now with any regularity. The crush of classes, part-time jobs and social obligations monopolized their time, as work had eaten up so many hours of Brognola's life while they were growing up. Instead of looking back on other seasons with regret, Brognola cherished every infrequent moment that they had together these days.
The three-day weekend was their private time before Jeff caught the southbound flight for Lauderdale, before Eileen and friends departed for a week in Provincetown. Brognola had avoided asking any questions, loath to pry, and equally afraid, perhaps, of what their honest answers might reveal. The big Fed hadn't spent his youth in a monastery, and he understood the modern trend toward free-and-easy sexuality, but it wouldn't do to know too much about his children's private lives. A man with few illusions left, he clung to the mirage of their eternal innocence. He chuckled to himself, imagining that when Eileen was thirty-five with children of her own, he would be cherishing the myth of virgin birth.
The parking lot was nearly empty, bureaucrats decamping early on a Friday afternoon, deserting desks and filing cabinets for the beach, the mountains, anywhere away from claustrophobic cubicles and jangling telephones. Brognola aimed his Buick toward the exit, spent another moment checking out with gate security then merged with weekend traffic, outbound, leaving Wonderland on the Potomac behind. He traveled west on Constitution Avenue, across the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge into Arlington, on past the endless graves of heroes, catching Highway 211 west toward Rappahannock County and the Blue Ridge Mountains.
They had owned the cabin for a dozen years, and had increasingly relied upon it as a refuge from the grind in Washington as Hal gradually moved up the ladder toward the pinnacle of Justice and a supervisory position with the Phoenix project. He could never really leave the job behind, but in the mountains, with the smell of evergreens supplanting the monoxide haze of civilization, Hal recaptured something of the gentler times. He was on call, of course, no more than ninety minutes from the office, but it seemed a world away.
And Helen made the difference. Helen and the kids.
Another forty minutes south along the Appalachian Trail, the hard core of his Phoenix team was standing ever-ready for another confrontation with the faceless enemy. Extensive renovations had been undertaken since the near-disaster that had claimed the life of April Rose, erstwhile mission controller and overseer of Stony Man Farm. These days the Farm, the U.S. government's ultrasecret command center — originally set up to support the Phoenix Project, and headed up by Colonel John Phoenix, as Mack Bolan was then known — was fully operational again, secure against intruders from without... and enemies within.
Brognola thought that this time he would make the drive to Rappahannock County on his own, without the company of ghosts and bitter memories. But there was no escape. Inevitably, as he drove, his mind was drawn to thoughts of April, memories of Aaron Kurtzman, Stony Man Farm's computer wizard who was crippled in the attack on the Farm, and Andrjez Konzaki, weaponsmith extraordinaire, who was mortally wounded in the same assault.
Memories of Mack Bolan.
But the weekend was his own to spend with loved ones far behind the battle lines. He found a music station on the radio and turned it up to blot out the distant memories.
His suitcase would be waiting for him at the cabin. Helen saw to that, along with all the other details of planning a weekend in the mountains that could drive a man to drink. She seemed to thrive on preparing for their rare reunions, lingering on points of trivia that Hal could never seem to keep in mind. He never ceased to marvel at her energy and her efficiency.
For no apparent reason a bleak thought crossed his mind and Hal wondered if he could get along without her...
No.
It would be simpler by far to get along without his legs, his hands, his eyes.
Without his heart.
Two hours out of D.C., he stopped for gas in Cresthill, searching out the tiny local liquor store and startling the owner with his order for a magnum of champagne. The locals were inclined to beer and Cutty Sark, but once the man recovered, he allowed that there should be a bottle somewhere out back. There was, and Hal was beaming as he pushed a pair of twenties toward the register, retreating with his prize before the owner had a chance to calculate his change. It was already dark, and he was in a hurry now.
Another two-and-a-half miles, and he took the cutoff on an unpaved washboard road that wound between the looming trunks of conifers, ascending toward a tiny clutch of cabins overlooking Cresthill and the northern Blue Ridge slopes. The cabins, five in all, were spaced around a sort of cul-de-sac, but trees and natural topography preserved a sense of isolation. Rarely were the cabins simultaneously occupied, and even with a group or families in residence, they might pass days without encountering a neighbor.
Brognola dropped the Buick into low and made the final fifty yards, past cabins standing empty, dark against the trees. His headlights probed around a curve and picked out Helen's station wagon, parked in the carport of the four-room structure. Hal nosed in behind the other vehicle, already marking lights that glowed through the curtained windows. He shut down the Buick's engine and climbed out with his bottle of champagne and his briefcase.
They must have heard him coming, but they would be busy preparing dinner now, perhaps already grilling the steaks that Helen had gone shopping for on Wednesday. Stiff from the drive and looking forward to a drink, Brognola clomped across the wooden porch and gave the knob a twist.
The door was locked.
He frowned, remembering that Helen would require some time to dust away the city's grime and finally relax. When visiting, they rarely locked the cabin door until they went to bed... and then secured it primarily against the possibility of roving bears or overcurious raccoons, instead of human enemies. The urban jungle was behind them for the moment. They were safe.
He found the key among his others, smiling as he anticipated the surprise on Helen's face, Jeff's handshake, Eileen's rush into his arms. Anticipation made him fumble twice before he found the keyhole, but he was already working on his entry line.
"It's pretty sorry when a man's own family locks him out."
The empty living room-kitchen greeted him with ringing silence. Startled by the absence of activity, Brognola raised his voice.
"Hello?"
No answer from the bedrooms, and a little chill of apprehension raised the short hairs at the back of his neck.
Relax, he told himself. They must be here. The car's parked right outside.
He left the champagne and briefcase on the kitchen counter, calling out once more, his voice subdued as he proceeded through the rooms. In Jeff's room a duffel bag rested on the bed. Two matching bags, emblazoned with decals Eileen had picked up on a summer tour of Europe two years earlier, sat on the floor of his daughter's room. In the final bedroom, he recognized one suitcase as his own, the other as his wife's. She had already stowed some clothing in the closet; it was standing open, and he scanned the line of blouses, slacks, the jacket she habitually brought along in case the nights turned cold. Outside, then.
There was a shed out back, for tools and whatnot. It was likely they had gone outside for something, and had hidden as a joke when he drove up. It might be possible to turn the joke around and take them by surprise if he was quick enough in doubling back. But they were not outside.
With the lighted cabin at his back, he stood in darkness and called their names. The night was cool, but the external temperature had little impact on Brognola. A deeper chill had crept into his bones, his vitals.
He took a breath and held it, swallowing the surge of panic, willing rationality to take control and suppress the primal terror he felt inside. There were alternatives, distinct and separate from any danger situation. All he had to do was keep his wits about him, think it through, until he solved the mystery. No. There wasno mystery.
His family was out, but he could not infer from that alone that they were missing. Worlds of difference separated one fact from the other, worlds of hurt that made the difference between a pleasant evening and an endless night of madness.
Neighbors. That had to be it.
He had seen no lights in either of the cabins that he passed, but that left two more at the far side of the cul-de-sac, invisible from where he stood. It was entirely possible that Helen and the kids had tired of waiting for him, or had simply sought to stretch their legs by visiting their neighbors down the road. Maybe they had simply gone out walking, but the darkness and the chill reminded him that they would certainly have turned toward home by now.
It would be neighbors, or it would be nothing, and he doubled back to close the cabin door before he set off down the unpaved drive on foot. He might have driven, covering the distance in a shorter time, but he was anxious for the Buick to be waiting when his family returned. It would alert them to his presence, let them know that he was waiting, looking for them.
Brognola reached the nearest cabin in a brisk ten-minute hike. At first he almost missed it, darkened as it was, deserted in the shadow of the forest. Aware that he was wasting time, but loath to overlook the smallest chance of gaining information on his family's whereabouts, he crossed the porch and hammered on the door. He was rewarded with only the echo of his pounding through the empty rooms inside.
Three down, and one remaining. Fifteen minutes farther on, Brognola felt hope swelling in his chest as he beheld the lighted windows of the final cabin. Parked outside, a Blazer four-by-four with gun racks in the window advertised the presence of a hunter. Hal had met the cabin owner several seasons before, but he could not recall the face or name. Already certain that his family was not there, he felt compelled to ask in any case.
The face that finally responded to his knock was not familiar in the least. The cabin had undoubtedly changed hands, but still he forged ahead, inquiring if the long-haired youth in residence had seen his family, anyone at all? And at the risk of being rude, precisely when had he arrived?
The young man recognized Brognola's tension, and helped as best he could. He had arrived that evening, about the time when Hal was pushing west on Constitution Avenue, and he had marked a station wagon at the second cabin down. Since his arrival there had been no sign of hikers, male or female, on the trail outside... but, then again, he wasn't really watching for them, either.
Feeling drained, Brognola thanked him for his help and trudged back through the darkness toward the cabin, praying silently that Helen and the kids would be there when he stepped across the threshold. They would not be there, of course; he knew that now with desperate certainty. They were not visiting the neighbors, and they had not opted for a hike through darkness.
They were simply gone.
In the yard Hal Brognola stopped to look at the cabin once more, as if his stare could will some message, a clue, of his family's whereabouts. He discerned on an outside wall of the lodge a sailboat, now disused, that he had fashioned out of driftwood for his son in earlier years. Hal's mind raced to the rooms inside, silent witnesses to adolescent dreams of sparkling water and buccaneers; rooms that kept secret tender endearments and the sounds of frenetic lovemaking on soft summer nights.
But what his eyes perceived instead made him take an involuntary step backward. The orange glow from lighted windows seemed to him a feral glare, the cabin's grim facade now mocking, taunting, slavering for blood. This refuge from the concrete jungle, Hal thought, this haven of love and happy times had betrayed him, surrendered his family to unspeakable and insidious evil.
Suddenly Hal Brognola felt a loathing for the place.
Shivering, although it was still warm, he stepped inside the cabin and called their names. Then he checked each empty room. But only silence greeted him, grating on his nerves like salt ground into an open wound.
Alternatives.
He had already wasted what — an hour? — tracking down the several low-risk possibilities. For peace of mind, if nothing else, the futile exercise had been an absolute necessity. That done, he recognized the need to search for answers on the darker side.
The cabin showed no evidence of any struggle. Clearly they had been here long enough to stow their luggage, and for Helen to begin unpacking. Food was waiting in the fridge, but they had not progressed as far as starting dinner. There, between the everyday parameters of settling in and sitting down to eat, must lie the extraordinary answer to the riddle of a lifetime. And Brognola realized with perfect certainty that everything depended on his own ability to solve that riddle quickly.
If there had been an accident, an injury to any of them, they would certainly have headed back to town. And if the station wagon had perhaps refused to start, they would have called an ambulance.
Brognola knew there would have been a note, as well, but he could not afford to let the notion pass without considering it. He carried keys to Helen's car, as she had keys for the Buick, and a moment later he was in the driver's seat, breathing ragged as he prepared to test the wagon's engine.
It started first time, sparking sudden anger in Brognola, causing him to slam a fist against the steering wheel before he turned off the ignition and stalked back toward the empty cabin.
And on to other possibilities.
If they had been surprised by an intruder, Jeff would certainly resist. As tall as Hal, athletic, muscular, he would be capable of handling any normal situation that arose. But there was nothing normal in the present circumstances, nothing to reveal what might have happened to his family.
The absence of a struggle mystified Brognola, and he scanned the several explanations. Several intruders. Weapons. The advantage of surprise.
There were no bloodstains at the scene, and that was good... unless their captor was a lunatic, one of the transient monsters lately targeted by federal research projects. He had seen those maniacs' work and memories of twisted, lacerated flesh on undertakers' tables brought a sudden rush of nausea that left him dizzy, gasping.
He forced it down as he realized he had no evidence that they had come to any harm. He was well aware that roving maniacs were loners, for the most part, timid when confronted by potential victims in a group. A psycho bold enough to forcibly invade the cabin would have killed them there, for sure. It was a thought that Hal could cling to, and if not precisely comforting, at least it gave him room for hope.
There were other enemies, of course, with motives of revenge that were completely rational, but wouldn't they have waited for him here, to finish off what they had started? There would be no reason to abduct his family, not when they could have as easily positioned gunners in the trees, or inside the cabin, to eliminate him when he left his car.
And yet...
The sudden shrilling of the telephone made Hal jump. He checked his watch, surprised to find that it was one minute short of midnight. Time had slipped away from him, and he was still no closer to an answer than he had been hours earlier.
He grabbed it on the second ring and fairly shouted down the wire. "Hello?"
"I'll bet it's lonely where you are." A man's voice, gloating, evil.
"Who the hell is this?"
"Just shut your face and listen, huh? That's better. We'll be calling back. You be there."
And the link was broken, the mindless dial tone buzzing in his ear like some demented insect. Brognola gripped the receiver in a stranglehold, white-knuckled, trembling with fear and rage. As he returned it to the cradle, he restrained himself from ripping loose the cord and flinging the telephone across the room.
It was his only lifeline now, his only means of finding out precisely what had happened to his family. "I'll bet it's lonely where you are." The message had been crystal clear, and there was no escaping its significance. The bastards had his wife, his children, and Brognola had no way of knowing where — or even who — they were. As for the motive, he would have to wait until they called again, and pray that they would not decide to pass on him, to simply slaughter Helen, Jeff, Eileen.
The bastards wanted him, and he would make himself available, but only at a price. The safety of his family, guaranteed, for openers. Whatever happened after they were safe was secondary, less than insignificant. His own life scarcely mattered in comparison.
But if the bastards didn't call again...
The man from Justice laid his head on cradled arms and wept. For Helen. For their children. He let the moment carry him away, and when it passed, Brognola knew that there was nothing he could do but wait for yet another call, another fleeting linkup with the men who meant to tear his world apart.
He stretched out on the sofa, one hand clutched around the snub-nosed .38 that he had worn from work, unconsciously. He wore it everywhere these days, but he had not expected to be needing it this weekend. They would not be coming for him now, Brognola knew; they would not have aroused him with a call if they intended to attack in force.
His mind was wrestling with fatigue, and losing. In spite of pain, fear and tense anxiety, the man from Wonderland could feel exhaustion gaining on him, reaching out with leaden hands to pull him down. And somewhere in the endless quarter hour after he received the first communication from his enemies, Brognola slept.
And was awakened by the telephone.
He struggled up from sleep, the squat revolver searching for a target, lowering as full consciousness returned with stunning swiftness. Glancing at the mantel clock through blurry eyes, he saw that it was 4:00 a.m.
"Hello?"
"Hang on."
A man's voice, different from the first, replaced immediately by the ringing silence of an open line. He didn't need an introduction to the second caller, but he got one anyway.
"Hal?" Her voice seemed distant, almost ghostly. "This is Helen..."