Devil's Run by Frank Hughes Page A

planning a whole new gondola
lift.”
    “So you were gonna throw
a wrench in the works. What was the plan?”
    “Security's tight up
there. I mean really tight, so they felt safe. Can't get close to the buildings
or the cable car, but for some reason this stuff, this construction stuff, was
right out there in the open. And, man, I can tell you, lumber goes up like
that.” He snapped his fingers. “Ken knew about an old hiking trail and an
overgrown game tunnel they’d overlooked. It ran right under the perimeter
fence. That was our way in.”
    “What about patrols?”
    “We had a local watching
for two weeks, timing the rounds, marking the security areas, videotaping
everything. Once I got there, I watched for two nights myself just to confirm.
Third night, we went in.”
    “What happened?”
    He spread his hand. “We
parked on a fire road just outside the property boundary, below the ghost town.
Five warriors go in on snowshoes with night vision goggles.”
    “Where'd you get those?”
    “At Toys R Us, grandpa.
Welcome to the 21st Century.”
    “Thanks for the tip.” My
hands longed for the feel of his neck. “How did you communicate?”
    “Walkie-talkies. From
Radio Shack” he added, as if I’d lost track of technology advances around the
time of the telegraph. “We had fire gel for the lumber, sugar for the
bulldozer’s fuel tank. Simple cigarette and matchbook timer to light off the
gel. Like in that old movie, you know, where the guys are in the prison camp?”
    “So what went wrong?”
    He shook his head. “I
have no idea. We were waiting at the rendezvous, on a ridge about a half mile
from the van, monitoring communications and shooting video.”
    “Wait,” I said, “who is
we?”
    “My local guy.”
    “Local? You mean a
permanent resident? Who was it?”
    “Guy named Madigan. I’m
only telling you ‘cause he’s dead now.”
    “Dead? How?”
    “Car accident,” he said,
in a tone that made it clear he didn’t believe it.
    “When was this?”
    “Less than two weeks
afterwards.”
    “Alright, go on with
what happened that night.”
    “Ten minutes ahead of
schedule, man, it was Mt. St Helens up there.” He made a blast gesture with his
hands. “Boom. Explosions, fire.”
    “Did you hear anything
from your team?”
    “Nothing I could
understand. The radio transmissions were garbled. Then I hear shooting up
there, on the mountain. All of a sudden there's a helicopter with searchlights
sweeping the area. Cars with flashers coming up the fire road.”
    “You left.”
    “We ran like hell.”
    “We?”
    “Madigan and me.”
    “You didn't take the
van?”
    “No, they spotted it
before I could get back. The chopper was circling, beam right on it. I couldn't
take the chance.”
    “How did you get away?”
    “Preparation, man. I've
been doing this a long time. I knew every way in and out and I have people in
Colorado. I just kept moving from safe house to safe house until it was okay to
catch a freight.”
    As if to punctuate his
story, a train whistle sounded in the distance.
    “So you never saw, or
heard from, any of the five again?” I said.
    “No. I made my way here.
Took me a month.” He smiled his annoying, lascivious smile. “Stayed with some
lady friends along the way.”
     The door opened
behind me. It was Epstein.
    “It's getting late,” he
said. “Time you went back.”
    “You wouldn't want the
Feds to get worried about ya, man,” said Roger.
    “I think they already
know,” said Epstein. “Someone is watching from the hill.”
    “Let 'em watch,” said
Roger. He uncoiled from the desk and dropped the chair back to four legs with
force that rattled the floorboards. Then he got up and switched off the
vibrator. He picked up the rifle, holding it casually at his side. He went
outside and down the steps while Epstein held the door open. I followed him
outside. The train whistle sounded again, closer. I could hear the rattling of
the cars in the distance.
    “Did