The Shadow Agent

by Daniel Judson

  Esa stopped short, saw that the first man was talking on a cell phone and had a ring of keys in his hand.

  His eyes were down as he sorted through the keys. The man behind him was pulling the outer door closed.

  Neither had looked through the glass yet.

  Holding the SIG with one hand, Esa lined up the pistol’s front sight on the lead man as he unlocked and opened the second door.

  The opening of the door allowed his side of the phone conversation to become audible, and Esa heard both urgency and confusion in the man’s voice.

  “I can see the flames from the street,” he said. “Yes, I’m positive it’s that apartment. Whatever they used to cover the windows is gone. It looks like the whole fucking room is engulfed.”

  He was stepping through the second door, telling whomever he was speaking to that he was on his way up, when he looked up and saw Esa.

  Before he could do more than let his mouth drop open, Esa fired.

  His head snapped back, and he dropped dead to the floor.

  With that man out of the way, Esa had a clear shot of his backup, who was assuming a shooter’s crouch as he reached with a well-practiced efficiency for his weapon.

  A short-barreled pump-action shotgun was suspended by a bungee strap attached to his right shoulder.

  The weapon hung between his arm and ribs, and while he was still in the process of clearing it from its place of concealment inside his jacket, Esa had already sighted the man and was easing the trigger rearward.

  There was no panic, no thought, just years of training and decades of maintaining that training.

  Sight, pause, trigger-press.

  It was as the trigger was reaching its breaking point—that millisecond before the hammer is released and the trigger goes soft—that Esa realized her mistake.

  A rookie’s mistake, one not worthy of her.

  Durand was standing between Esa and the man with the shotgun, but Esa was too focused on the imminent threat to guard herself from any action her captive might take, so she was taken by surprise when Durand ducked suddenly and spun to her right, breaking free of Esa’s one-handed grip.

  But Durand wasn’t just looking to escape and get out of the line of fire.

  Once free, she slipped under Esa’s outstretched right arm, ramming her shoulder into Esa’s exposed ribs and driving the woman sideways into the wall.

  More important, she had disrupted Esa’s careful aim at the second man just as the trigger broke and the pistol fired.

  Esa missed her mark by inches, the stray shot shattering the glass of the partially open door.

  The instant she had Esa against the wall, Durand launched a series of knee strikes to Esa’s thighs, groin, lower abs—fast blows, some more effective than others; though as aggressive as the attack was, it wasn’t enough to bring Esa down.

  But it was enough to allow the second man, who had been driven down to a prone position by Esa’s shot, to bring his weapon to bear.

  Durand was brave, not ready to quit her mission—Esa gave her that much.

  But her relentless attack had caused her to position herself once again between Esa and the man in the doorway.

  The man was clearly part of a team sent to back her up.

  What Durand wasn’t expecting, however, was the man’s panic, because once he had the shotgun pointed in the direction of the two women halfway down the hallway, he immediately fired.

  Durand’s back was to him, and she took the brunt of the double-aught buckshot—seven out of the nine .33-caliber pellets tore into her torso.

  The remaining two pellets struck Esa side by side in her front deltoid.

  Durand dropped to the floor, but Esa, thanks mainly to the presence of the wall, managed to remain standing.

  The searing heat and the pain from the pellets lodged in her shoulder made her cry out, but there was no time for pain.

  With Durand out of the way, the second man had a clear shot of Esa. He pumped the forend grip, exchanging the spent shell for a live one.

  Esa wasn’t going to let him do more than that, though.

  Opting for point-and-shoot over pausing to take careful aim, she ducked and opened up with the SIG, firing nonstop.

  Every round she unleashed hit the man, but it wasn’t until the fourth or fifth that she landed an instantly fatal shot.

  Somewhere in between those first rounds and the one that finally killed the man, however, he had pulled the trigger.

  The buckshot flew high and landed in the wall above Esa’s bowed head, bits of plaster raining down on her.

  Esa crouched down, rolled Durand onto her side, saw closed eyes and an open mouth. She felt her neck for a pulse and detected one, but it was weak.

  That and the blood flowing from the woman’s multiple wounds told Esa that she’d be dead in minutes, if not sooner.

  Esa searched Durand’s clothing for a cell phone but found only a wallet containing ID and cash.

  She took those, then realized she was wearing Durand’s leather jacket. The first pocket she squeezed contained what she was seeking.

  Taking the phone out, she touched the screen to confirm that it was unlocked and therefore usable before returning it to her pocket.

  Standing, Esa hurried down the hallway, removing one of Lyman’s spare mags from her back pocket as she went. She executed a tactical reload, switching the partially spent mag in the weapon for the fully loaded one in her hand. After a quick glance to determine how many rounds remained, she slipped the partially spent mag into her hip pocket in case at some point she needed those last shots.

  Stepping over the first dead man to the second one, she tucked the SIG into her waistband at the small of her back, then took the steak knife from her right back pocket and cut the bungee strap, freeing the shortened shotgun.

  She noticed that on the man’s rigger belt was an individual first aid kit in a MOLLE pouch.

  Using her left hand, Esa dumped the contents of the pouch onto the floor, finding right away what she was looking for—a QuickClot combat gauze.

  Picking it up, she tore open the packaging with her teeth, then removed the dressing and placed it, still folded, inside the jacket, shoving it into the sleeve until it covered her shoulder wounds.

  After gathering the remaining items from the emptied IFAK pouch and stuffing them into the plastic bag hanging from her wrist, Esa stood and, with the shotgun concealed inside the leather jacket, moved to the street door. She paused to survey the street before stepping through and moving down the half dozen steps.

  She walked west along the sidewalk. Removing Durand’s phone, she called an emergency number provided to her by the Benefactor and requested an immediate exfil.

  Once she had been given the location of the extraction point, she ended the call.

  At the corner ahead was a storm drain, and Esa casually tossed the phone into it as she passed.

  Thirty-One

  Tom walked toward the entrance to the York Street subway station located at the end of the block.

  It took all he had not to run, though he did turn his head often as he scanned for any sign of other attackers.

  This would be a clear indication of duress to any witnesses who should happen to be looking at him, but stealth was no longer his primary concern—survival was.

  He saw no one rushing toward him, either head-on or from behind, and though he couldn’t be certain, all the parked vehicles that lined both sides of the street appeared to be unoccupied.

  Holstering the Colt, Tom pressed on, staggering several times, almost falling once, after which he had to stop and lean against a building before he found what it took to get moving again.

  He was reminded by his condition of that eternity he’d spent inside the tumbling SUV back in Connecticut.

  The violent rolling that seemingly wouldn’t end and that had ultimately overwhelmed him and caused loss of consciousness.

  Unconsciousness, however, needed to be avoided now at all costs.


  What was it Cahill had said about Tom’s preferred ammo?

  I wouldn’t want to be in a confined space when you shoot those things off. That’s just asking for a concussion.

  Tom had fired twice in the elevator, and then twice again in the open doorway.

  And he knew the symptoms of a concussion even as he suffered from them.

  He needed to keep his mind occupied so he would stay awake. To that end he asked himself how long ago the crash in Connecticut had occurred.

  Had that been mere hours? Was it last night or the night before that?

  The actual time mattered less than the fact that he couldn’t recall.

  Nor could he remember the walk from the storage facility to where he was now . . . wherever the hell that was.

  There were moments when his vision was blurred at the edges, and then others when a floating black egg obscured the exact center of his line of sight.

  He didn’t have a lot of time, still needed to take the subway back to where he had parked Cahill’s Ranger a few stops away.

  He considered it a good sign that he was able to understand that much.

  Another good sign was that, upon arriving at the subway entrance at the end of the block, Tom recognized that he needed to make sure that he boarded the Manhattan-bound train.

  He was standing at the top of the stairs, fixated on that important detail, when he detected movement out of the corner of his eye.

  Turning, he saw that someone was on the sidewalk, twenty feet away but coming behind him fast—someone who was seemingly as bad off as he was, staggering and yet moving with purpose, or trying to at least.

  It took a few seconds for Tom to fully understand what was happening, but by then it was too late.

  Ears bleeding, eyes glassy, the young man from the elevator closed in on Tom, his sidearm raised and leveled at his target.

  Before Tom could even reach for his Colt, the young man, only steps away now, stopped and fired.

  His first shot, aimed at Tom’s head, missed, but the follow-up shot, executed quickly and pointed at Tom’s torso, landed.

  The force of the round impacting the Kevlar vest wasn’t enough to drop Tom, but it caused him to stumble backward.

  Twice his feet landed on solid pavement, but the third step he took was met only by open air, and he fell.

  Hitting the concrete and steel stairs hard, he managed to keep his head up as he slid downward, fast at first but then slowing to a stop roughly halfway down the steep flight.

  He also managed to keep his hold on the handle of the carrying case, and his long-billed cap stayed on.

  The instant he stopped, even as the pain from the multiple injuries he had sustained began to register, Tom reached for his Colt.

  But it was holstered at the four o’clock position on his belt, which meant the weapon was pinned between his back and the stairs.

  He rolled his torso to the left so he could clutch the grip, rolled farther still so he could draw it from its holster.

  It was as he was doing this—rolling onto his left shoulder, pulling at the pistol, his eyes on the top of the stairs—that he sensed a second wave of pain.

  But he pushed through that, had his weapon finally free, and was rolling onto his back, when the young man appeared above him.

  Not trusting his ability to aim, Tom simply pointed in the young man’s direction and fired.

  His opponent did the same, and both men missed.

  Tom rode the recoil, then knew he had no choice; he needed to let go of the case so he could add his left hand to the grip.

  He did that, and the case tumbled down to the bottom of the stairs.

  Tom was looking for the front sight, but all he could see was that black floating egg in the center of his line of sight.

  The young man fired a second time, missing. He, too, brought up his support hand, forming a two-handed grip.

  Tom still couldn’t see the white dot of the front sight, and he had lost count of how many rounds he had fired so far—and how many he had left.

  And even if he could find the sight, his hands were shaking so much that hitting his target would be an issue of luck more than skill.

  So he fired blind and then fired again, but the young man remained standing.

  The slide of Tom’s Colt sprang forward into battery, so it hadn’t run dry yet, but he knew he had to be down to his last few rounds if not his last one.

  The young man took the first step, moved down to the next step—to close the distance just that much more so he wouldn’t miss.

  His eyes, still glassy, were fluttering now.

  Taking the steps in his condition required that he hold on to the railing with his left hand, so he was aiming one-handed again.

  And that single hand was shaking as badly as Tom’s joined hands were.

  A shift in Tom’s vision—the black egg disappearing as the edges turned hazy again—allowed Tom to find the front sight.

  He willed his hands steady till the white dot obscured the circle of the man’s face that contained his eyes, nose, and mouth.

  Tom exhaled and eased back the trigger.

  The young man dropped into a heap at the top of the stairs, his pistol falling from his hand and tumbling down several steps.

  Tom didn’t need to look at the Colt, could tell just by the feel of the weapon that its slide had locked open on the empty mag.

  He grunted—a sound he could barely hear—as he rolled onto his left side, then reached for the railing and used it to pull himself to his feet.

  Once standing, he released the empty mag, letting it, too, tumble down the stairs. Then he slapped in a full one, depressing the slide release with his left thumb and, once the slide slammed forward, engaged the safety with his right thumb before holstering the pistol.

  Stooping, he grabbed the young man’s weapon, which he unloaded as he hurried down the stairs.

  At the bottom step he stooped again and picked up his case and the empty mag.

  It took considerable concentration for him to stand up again.

  As he approached the turnstile, he spotted a refuse container, dropped the mag inside, along with the single cartridge he had extracted from the chamber of the dead man’s weapon.

  Once through the turnstile, he saw that the train had already arrived, its doors opening.

  There was no one on the platform waiting to board, and only four people had disembarked and were heading for the exit.

  As he crossed the platform, he diverted to another refuse container, dumping the empty pistol into it.

  He boarded the train, the doors closing behind him, sat with the carrying case on his lap, and scanned the faces of his fellow passengers.

  There were only three, scattered throughout the car.

  Not one of them even bothered to glance up from their respective devices.

  Once the train was moving, Tom lowered his head and looked down at the carrying case.

  His heart almost stopped when he saw, just off dead center, a hole in the case.

  Tom laid the case flat on his lap to examine it, hoping his troubled eyes were playing tricks on him.

  In a way they were, because upon closer inspection he saw two holes, not just one.

  Two bullets—pistol-caliber bullets, by the size of the holes—had passed clean through the protective plastic.

  Tom opened the case, already knowing what he’d find.

  The tablet, its screen shattered, had been hit twice.

  Tom just held it in his shaking hand and stared at it.

  He didn’t remember exiting the train or crossing the platform.

  Nor did he remember climbing the stairs to the street.

  But suddenly he was aboveground again, moving beneath an overcast morning sky, the smell of diesel fumes from idling delivery trucks nauseating him.

  Over the ringing in his ears, he could hear the rattling of diesel engines.

  He had parked the Ranger several blocks from the subway statio
n, and it took at least another half block of walking before he was certain that he was heading in the right direction.

  Though he was only two blocks away by that point, the sense of certainty came and went several more times.

  His condition was deteriorating—labored breathing, rapid heart rate, moments of impaired balance so intense it was as if he were walking the deck of a ship afloat on rough seas.

  He probably looked like a drunk or derelict to anyone who took notice of him, but he didn’t care about that. He needed to get to the relative safety of his vehicle and, once there, contact Torres for assistance in getting somewhere safe.

  There was no plan beyond that.

  The sight of the Ranger gave him no sense of relief. The last few steps before he reached it were the most troublesome to make.

  Suddenly his left foot was dragging as he walked.

  But he made it into the driver’s seat, shut and locked the door. He searched the messenger bag for his smartphone, but once he had it in his hand, he couldn’t focus on the device long enough to make use of it.

  The next thing Tom knew, someone was knocking on the driver’s door window.

  He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but his smartphone must have slipped from his hand because it was now by his feet.

  The key to the Ranger was beside it.

  He was reaching down for the key, straining to grasp it, when someone arrived at the passenger door and started knocking on that window.

  Voices were calling his name—a woman’s and a man’s.

  “Tom. Tom! Unlock the door!” the woman urged.

  “Let us in, mate!” the man called.

  Tom must have slipped out of consciousness again, because suddenly the passenger door window was open, and there were bits of shattered safety glass on the seat.

  Then the door was opened, and a pair of hands grabbed him.

  He was upright, held that way by someone with unmistakable strength.

  The man said, “Grab all his gear.”

  After that Tom was moving, guided forward by the same hands that were keeping him up.

  Then he was overtaken by blackness again.

  Tom was sitting still, but he also sensed that he was in motion.