The power plant rose ghostly against the night. Snow swirled around the plant’s four smokestacks. It looked quite beautiful in a broken way. A medieval fortress standing vigil over some lost wilderness.
Gibson drove around back, took the keys from the ignition, and sat behind the wheel, listening to the wind. He half expected helicopters and a SWAT team to materialize out of the night sky. The snow continued to fall. He racked the slide of his gun, chambering the only round, and slipped it into his belt. One round would be all he’d need if he was indeed walking into a stakeout. No one else would suffer for his mistake.
In the Yukon’s headlights, he saw Duke Vaughn waiting at the basement door. He’d changed into a charcoal suit and looked ready to go to battle with Senate foes across the aisle.
“Where have you been?” Gibson demanded. He couldn’t believe his dad had the nerve to show up now after leaving him to twist in the wind.
“Don’t do this, son. Don’t lose faith now.”
“Faith? You’re not a priest. You’re a figment of my imagination.”
“These things take time,” Duke said.
“Yeah, it’s always another day. One more thing. Isn’t it? It’s bullshit.”
“If you go in there, you’re throwing away everything we’ve worked for.”
“We’ve worked for?” Gibson said. “You abandoned me. I needed you. I’ve been all alone.”
Duke didn’t cede an inch. “You’ll never feel normal again. Do you want that?”
“I don’t want to be this man, Dad. I must have been crazy to listen to you.”
“Well, now you’re just throwing me softballs,” Duke said with a grin.
“It was a mistake,” Gibson said, peeling back the tape around the door. It was all intact and untouched. A reassuring sign. He turned on his lights and went down the steps. A thin coat of dust had settled undisturbed along the hall. Nothing seemed amiss. His feet echoed down the stairwell.
Duke waited at the first turn, shaking his head. “Please think this through. I raised you to be better than this.”
“I’m not your son. You’re not real. You’re dead.”
“As if you care.”
Gibson took a wild swing at the thin air where he saw his father. He stumbled and almost fell.
“Strike one,” Duke said. “Feel better?”
Gibson put a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture.
“Oh, knock it off,” Duke said. “He can’t hear me.”
“You had your chance. Leave me alone.”
“It’s not that simple,” his father said as Gibson brushed past him.
Outside the cell door, Gibson retrieved his gear from the cubbyhole and did an equipment check: stun gun, syringe, zip ties, hood. Through the peephole, Ogden stood motionless in the center of the room, staring intently at the door, Gibson’s footfalls having announced his arrival. Apart from the beginnings of a beard, Ogden appeared unchanged by his brief imprisonment. One of the cases of food had been torn into, but the cell itself was well tended. Gibson read over the printed instructions on the white sheet of paper he carried:
You’re going home today. Lie facedown on the ground, hands behind your head. If you move or speak, we’ll try this again in a month.
Satisfied, Gibson knelt to slip the note under the door.
“Gibson Vaughn,” Ogden said through the door, his voice full of authority and purpose. Gibson remembered that about him from West Virginia. Despite having been tortured and shot in the leg, Ogden had still talked as if he were in total control.
Gibson froze, staring stunned at the door.
“Vaughn. I know it’s you out there.”
Gibson stumbled away from the door and sat down hard with his back against the wall. How had he given himself away? He’d been so thorough.
“Took me a while to figure it out, but I have nothing but time, thanks to you. I asked myself, who would kidnap a CIA officer but ask no questions? It was a pretty short list. Plus, the cell is kind of a dead giveaway.”
Gibson shut his eyes and cursed silently. There went plan A. If he released Ogden now, he would be in custody within hours.
“Got to say, I did not see you coming,” Ogden continued. “Completely underestimated you. Should have given more credence to your military record. And you have to tell me how you found me; I’m dying to know. All the way around, an impressive operation. But what’s your endgame? You’re one man. You know how many people are looking for me right now? How long before they find you? What then? I don’t know what point you’re trying to make, but consider it made. What happened to you was regrettable, but I’d do it again. I won’t apologize for doing my job. You were involved with the bin Laden operation. You more than most should understand that sometimes there’s collateral damage in this world. I know it stings when it’s our turn, but this? This isn’t going to end well for you.
“Talk to me. We can work something out. You do know the sentencing guidelines for kidnapping a representative of the United States government, don’t you? The Patriot Act is very specific about it. So talk to me. We come to some kind of accommodation, I’ll put in a good word for you. Maybe save you from the worst of it. Unless, of course, you like needles.”
Gibson reached for his gun and held it gingerly in both hands. There was always plan B. He wondered what the muzzle would feel like pressed to his temple.
He pushed the thought away and holstered the gun. He wasn’t thinking clearly. What he needed was time to come up with an alternative. Ogden would be okay for another week. Gibson stood and went back up the stairs. Ogden heard him leaving and began barking his name, ordering him to come back. Then pleading. Then silence. Outside, the wintery mix had turned to regular old rain.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After the debacle at the power plant, Gibson’s grip on sanity continued to erode. More and more, his vigilance descended into paranoia. Every vehicle became a possible tail, anyone glancing in his direction a possible undercover. Unfamiliar faces at the Nighthawk looked suspicious. Gibson knew he was becoming irrational but couldn’t control himself. It wore at his nerves, and he felt himself becoming twitchy. If Detective Bachmann came back for another friendly chat, Gibson didn’t know if he could hold it together.