The Breach - Ghost Country - Deep Sky

compromised the safe’s lock or hinges.
    Travis stepped closer to the Tap. He watched the room’s lighting scatter and reflect in its depths.
    The sheet of paper in front of it contained all the main points of how to use the thing. Moyer had left nothing out.
    Suddenly Travis heard footsteps coming from further aft—the small portion of the plane he hadn’t checked out yet. He turned just as two men entered the conference room.
    One was the Wilford Brimley standin from the dream.
    The other was President Holt.

Chapter Forty-One
    Travis’s hand went to the knife’s grip just above his waist, and felt it through the material of the suit.
    He could kill both men without any risk to himself—could do it right now, and by the time the eight in the seats came running, it’d be over. There’d be all the time in the world to swipe the blade clean and resheath it under the suit before any of them got here. No problem, after that, to pick them off one by one as he’d done among the redwoods. Them and anyone else he might come upon farther back toward the tail. Almost any way that it shook out, two or three minutes from now, everyone on the plane could be dead except the pilots, Garner, and whoever was being held with him. For a dramatic finish, Travis could then help Garner to the open doorway at the front of the aircraft, and several dozen California state cops would see a dead man step out into the sunlight.
    That would sure as hell be the end of the cover-up.
    But as a plan, Travis didn’t like it.
    Even with the story broken wide open, Garner would be in serious danger. Federal authorities of one kind or another would descend on the scene and exert control, and there would be no telling whether they’d stood with Holt or not. Garner would be entering that situation from a position of uncertainty and weakness. He’d be at the mercy of others. Lots of others.
    There was a better approach to take, and it would be just as brutally simple to execute. All it would require was a little patience.
    Travis let his hand fall away from the knife.
    The Brimley lookalike was holding a few sheets of yellow notepad paper and a red pen. He dropped the pen on the table and spread the sheets out side by side, and he and Holt stood looking down on them, saying nothing.
    The pages were scrawled with red handwriting. Travis stepped close enough to discern the words while staying at a safe distance from either of the men. He began to read, and within seconds realized what he was looking at.
    These were interrogation notes.
    The scribbled lines comprised all the information that’d been drawn out of Garner and whoever else they had, in repeated drug sessions going back to probably late last night.
    Travis scanned all the text in about sixty seconds.
    These guys had learned almost everything—at least regarding the second half of Ruben Ward’s message. The instructions. They knew that the original nine recipients had gained financial and political power based on the instructions. That they’d been told to use that power to acquire knowledge of—and influence over—the Breach and whoever ended up overseeing it. The last note read:
    Someone is designated to pass into the Breach in 2016. Name???
    Travis looked up from the pages and realized that both Holt and the older man were focused on that final line.
    The old man exhaled hard and paced away from the table. “Five hours on this last point and we’ve got nothing. He’s not going to give up the name. It’s the linchpin. He knows how important it is.”
    “Let’s not write it off yet,” Holt said.
    “I’ve done more interrogations with phen-d than anyone, and I promise you—”
    “Porter—”
    “I promise you, he’s not going to tell us. Worst of all is the longevity involved. Thirty-four years, this has been his deepest secret. Forget it.”
    Holt started to respond, but a sound cut him off. Someone’s ringtone, out in the seating area ahead. Through the doorway and beyond the hall, Travis saw one of the men in the window seats take out his phone. He answered, listened for a long time, said a few words and then ended the call. He pocketed the phone, stood, and came and leaned in the doorway.
    “Your contractors found a scrap from a wallet in the burned-out Humvee, with a Social Security number. Victim was a Secret Service agent named Rudy Dyer.” He looked at Holt. “You know him, sir?”
    Holt nodded slowly, thinking. “Heard of him. Garner was close to him,