Free Cain by James Byron Huggins Page A

through the tight CIA perimeter for half a night, defeating security with the assistance of a thundering rainstorm to enter, dying on his feet, the back of the cottage.
    To find Ben waiting for him.
    The general didn't even have a gun, had chosen not to wear one. No, his trust and friendship had been his only weapon, and Soloman would never forget the conversation.
    "Get out of the way, Ben," he said, staring darkly at the professor's cringing form, bleeding slowly onto the wooden floor. "I mean it," he added. "I'll kill you if I have to."
    "No," Ben responded flatly. "It's over, Sol. You did 'em all."
    "Not this one."
    Soloman remembered how he went light in the moment, swaying as he lifted the Colt. But Ben didn't move, stood solidly in front of the trembling shape. "Think about it, Ben!" Soloman fought for consciousness. "If Archette isn't guilty, how did he know I was coming for him?"
    "There'll be an investigation," Ben responded firmly. "But you can't just kill him, Sol. It'd be murder, and you're not a murderer. You got the rest of 'em. Screw 'em. They deserved it. But Archette works for us and you've got to have proof before you take him 'round the corner. That's just the way it is." He paused. "I can't back down from this."
    They stood in silence before Ben added, "You can kill me if you want, Sol. I ain't gonna raise a weapon against you. But if you back down, I guarantee you that Archette will stand trial. And you can believe me on that: I guarantee it."
    Remembering the scene, Soloman grunted.
    A trial.
    What a joke.
    It had been a mockery with un -certifiable testimony from double agents, triple-agents, shades of secret alliances and betrayals that laid such a convoluted network of lies that not even a military tribunal combined with a Senate Intelligence Subcommittee hearing could discover anything except that Soloman had, indeed, vengefully sanctioned every member of the elite terrorist team that had murdered his family.
    In the end, the truth had been buried with his wife and child, and Archette walked cleanly away but for the tarnish of Soloman's accusations, which carried little weight inside the agency.
    Butcher, they'd called him.
    But he was no butcher. He had avenged what was sacred, had known from the first that, if it ever happened, he would avenge them. And now it had all come home again, and he felt it again. Maybe, he thought, things just had a way of coming around, of bringing you back home.
    After a moment he shook his head, his mind returning to the desert. He had sought something there for so many years in the silent dark that would close the memories and ghosts and regrets. And now he'd been brought back to what haunted him . .. most of all.
    Make a decision.
    Soloman bowed his head.
    "Tell them I'm in," he said.
    "It's done."
    Suddenly the door opened and Maggie Milton entered, looking far better than she had on the previous night . Her hair was fresh and she appeared striking in a businesslike black pants suit. She nodded cordially as she came close and sat down, opening a file.
    "Good morning, Maggie," Soloman said pleasantly. "You look refreshed."
    "I am," she smiled. "Shall we get started?"
    "Let's," he said.
    It took most of the day for Maggie to explain fully the complex alterations she'd made to Cain's body. Soloman compared the endless scientific data with Cain's extensive military 201 file, searching to find any clue that might enable him to anticipate Cain's next move, to discover some small weakness. But he found nothing because there was simply nothing there. And, even as he sat there, dozens of agents were busy in the field, checking Cain's comrades and contacts. As Soloman had predicted, Cain had made no contact with any of them. It was infinitely frustrating, and at day's end all three were fatigued at finding nothing.
    Shaking his head angrily, Soloman leaned back from the table, eyes dry. Then he began replaying the video in his mind, again and again seeing a dead man brought