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And on it went day after day.
In his mind he counted them off, just as he had in prison.
Eight days. Nine. Ten. Two weeks.
He wondered what they were planning to do with him. Kill him? Autopsy him? And then cremate him?
Those were his best guesses.
He was sure the guards had been told he was a murderer and also guilty of treason. They would have no sympathy for him.
And he didn’t want any.
Once, someone arrived carrying a medical bag.
One of the guards hit him with what he assumed was the same gas that Jericho had deployed against him. He fell senseless to the floor.
Later, when he awoke, he saw the bandages on his arms and legs. When he looked under them he saw the incisions. They had taken pieces of him away. Maybe for analysis.
They are kicking the tires of the freak.
He was just waiting. Biding his time. He ate his food, drank his water, used the toilet, showered with the hose. Slept and woke. Slept and woke.
Yes, just biding his time. His patience, he had proven, was infinite.
Then one day he had a visitor, a middle-aged man who arrived with a briefcase and a polite, professional attitude. He spoke through the bars to Rogers after the guards had backed away to allow them privacy.
Rogers had listened to everything carefully.
The man had ended the meeting by saying, “Good luck.”
“It’s never really about luck, though, is it?” Rogers had replied.
And finally, after five more days, the time came.
“We’re moving you,” the head guard said.
“Why?”
The guard didn’t bother to answer.
He saw the bottle coming and then he was sprayed in the face with the gas. He fell heavily to the floor.
They lifted him off the floor and carried him to a waiting Army transport truck, where he was put into the back and strapped down to the floor. Six guards climbed in with him, guns resting on their thighs.
They set off. Their route took them along some back roads, and then they reached a highway and the truck sped up. They reached a bridge and drove across it.
One of the guards peeked through the back flap. “Damn, that’s a beautiful sight. Nothing like a bridge over water on a fine night.”
A second later Rogers ripped the straps off.
“Holy shit!” exclaimed the guard nearest to him.
He reached for his weapon but didn’t get there before Rogers threw him against the man next to him. Both went down in a tumble of arms and legs.
One guard got off a burst from his weapon but missed. He did not get a second chance. Rogers grabbed him by the shoulder and, using him as a weapon, smashed him against the other guards, who were knocked off their feet and thrown against the hard wooden sides of the truck.
Rogers flung open the canvas flap and looked out.
It was dark. There were car lights behind him. He looked to his right and saw the side of the bridge. He looked across the water and recognized Naval Station Norfolk, which meant that Fort Monroe was just across the channel.
He bent his legs and jumped to the right.
He cleared the concrete side of the bridge and went into a dive.
He didn’t know how far down it was, but it was long enough.
He straightened out, led with his hands, and cleanly broke the surface of the water. He went under, angled out his descent, and then headed back to the surface.
He stayed there only a few seconds before going back under.
The guards had recovered and were firing at him from the bridge. The bullets pinged into the water, but at this distance and in the dark they would be lucky to hit their target.
And they weren’t lucky. Tonight, the luck all seemed to be with Rogers. Yet, like he had told the visitor, it was never about luck. The bottle he’d been sprayed with had held nothing but oxygen. The guard’s comment about the bridge had been his signal to act. The rest of it had been up to Rogers.
But a little luck never hurt either.
He struck off for shore with powerful strokes of his arms and kicks of his legs. The channel was not very wide. They would deploy people to cover as much of it as possible.
But Rogers had spent a long time here training, and a great deal of it had been in this body of water. He had discovered landing spots that he suspected few knew about.
He pointed himself toward one of them and in short order arrived there. It was wooded and isolated, and when he came ashore his only companions were woodland creatures that ran away at his approach.
He had one more task to perform.
And then he was done.
Chapter
74
EIGHT STORIES TALL.
And she was perched right on top.
Of course.
Veronica Knox looked at her watch and then walked toward the building. She was dressed in a long black trench coat with the collar turned up. Her features were tight, her gut even tighter.
In the lobby she was searched and her gun and phone taken from her. She was escorted up in the elevator by an armed security guard. The elevator opened directly into the vestibule of Claire Jericho’s apartment.
The woman was waiting there for her. She was dressed in a dark pantsuit. She took off her glasses and rubbed away a smudge.
The guard went back down in the elevator, leaving the two women facing one another.
“I was surprised you wanted to meet,” said Jericho. She made no indication she was going to invite Knox into the apartment.
“Unfinished business,” replied Knox.
“Really? I’m aware of none.”
“Rogers has escaped.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“You could be in danger.”
Jericho smiled. “And, what, you came here to warn me because you’re concerned about my safety?”
“I’ve checked. You have a great many friends in high places.”
She shrugged. “I’ve been doing this a long time. You build relationships.”
“You’re getting away with murder, you know.”
Jericho looked disappointed. “If this was the purpose for the visit, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. And I have other things to do.”
“Did it hurt to lose your daughter?”
“Oh, you mean Helen?”
“Yes, Helen Myers,” Knox said tightly.
“I know what you want me to say. That it did hurt. That I miss her. That I’m grieving. But the truth is we didn’t really know each other. She was with her father most of her life, until he died, and then she came to me for help. And I did help. With setting her up in business. I feel like I was a good mentor to her. But that was really the sum total of our relationship. So, am I sorry she’s dead? Of course I am. Do I have the same level of grief as, say, your friend John Puller over losing his mother?” She shook her head. “The answer of course is and has to be no.” She paused. “And how are John and his brother doing? Are they holding up well?”
“You don’t have the right to ask that,” Knox said sharply.
“I was just being polite.”
“The unfinished business,” said Knox.
