by CW Browning
Package sedated and secured.
At least one person knows how to do their job, he thought to himself, tucking his phone back into his pocket. Angela Bolan was now in play.
He turned to go back to his dresser, gathering together an armful of clothes and carrying them to the bed. He dropped them next to the open rolling-case and began to roll teeshirts into neat, space-saving tubes.
Neither Agent Walker nor Agent Hanover had surfaced yet, remaining well-hidden and out of sight. Harry’s lips tightened. Not only were they not dead, as expected, but their whereabouts were a mystery. They had simply disappeared without a trace. The last known location was a condo in Center City, Philadelphia, and all efforts to track them from that location had proven futile. Only a handful of people were that good at covering their tracks, and he had trained them all. No doubt about it, Stephanie Walker and Blake Hanover had help.
His phone vibrated again and Harry sighed, pausing in his packing to pull it out again. He swiped the screen and a scowl settled on his lips. He stared at the message for a moment, then slowly lowered the phone. Another one of his agents had disappeared.
A few days ago, as a precaution, he tasked someone to keep an eye on Charlie. There was always the outside chance that he would meet with Viper, and Harry could settle this whole thing once and for all if the assassin showed up in Washington, DC. It was a longshot, but he believed in keeping all the bases covered, even if the play was a walk. To that end, he put one of the few agents he had left on the intelligence king. Now that agent had disappeared.
“Damn!”
Harry glared across the room ferociously. If Charlie knew he was being followed, he would take steps to lose his tail, not kill it. If, however, Viper was in town, she would have no such compunction. If she thought for one second that her boss was being watched, she’d kill first and ask questions later, just as any good asset would.
Harry glanced at his watch. It was almost ten. Lifting his phone, he sent an answering text.
When was his last check-in?
He dropped his phone onto the bed next to his open case and began rolling the rest of the shirts quickly, abandoning neatness for speed. A few moments later, the phone vibrated and he looked at the message.
Three hours ago. All attempts to contact have failed. GPS offline.
Harry paused to pick up the phone.
And the mark?
Dropping it onto the bed again, he turned to stride to his walk-in closet. When he emerged a few minutes later with another armful of clothes, the phone was blinking. He laid the clothes on the bed and picked up the phone, swiping the screen impatiently.
Unable to locate.
Harry let out a low string of curses and slid the phone back into his pocket. Charlie could be anywhere. The man was notoriously slippery, moving in the shadows like a ghost. He could be eating dinner in the middle of a crowded, trendy Georgetown restaurant, or he could be standing in the street outside, watching him pack. Or he could be meeting with Viper right now.
Going back to rolling clothes, Harry pressed his lips together thoughtfully. He had no fear that Charlie had figured out the truth about him yet. Viper was a fool if she hadn’t realized he was behind everything, but Charlie was a different story altogether. He had taken every care to ensure that Charlie would be left in the dark until he was long gone. He had to. It was the only way he could make it out of the country. If Charlie even got so much as an inkling that something was off, Harry knew his chances of getting away were non-existent. Charlie was ruthless. He wouldn’t wait for formal proceedings. He would freeze all Harry’s assets and then eliminate Harry himself.
Harry’s lips pulled into a dry smile. That was why the majority of his assets were so well hidden that even Charlie couldn’t find them. The smile faded abruptly at the thought of the breach of the account in Singapore. Perhaps not as well-hidden as he had planned. Michael O’Reilly had managed to find one of them.
The case was full now and Harry zipped it closed. While he had assured that there was no possibility of Charlie discovering anything before it was too late, Harry acknowledged a strange sense of relief that he was leaving tonight. In a few days, this would all be over. Angela was in place, Viper would come to rescue her, and both women would be killed. Without Viper to conceal and shield them, Agents Walker and Hanover would quickly follow. The only one left that could possibly threaten his retirement at that point would be Michael O’Reilly, and Harry had already taken the precaution of arranging an accident for the Secret Service agent when he came back into town after his vacation.
Yes. It was all arranged, and his plans never failed.
Viper stood deep in the shadows with her hands in her jacket pockets, watching as Charlie hailed a cab. A moment later a white taxi pulled to the curb and he got in, disappearing into the backseat. As she turned away to melt into the darkness, she wondered if she would ever see her boss again. The way things were shaping up, it didn’t look promising.
She had arrived in the nation’s capital over an hour ahead of schedule, courtesy of the 3 liter, 443 hp engine under the Porsche’s hood. Using that time to her advantage, she’d scouted Charlie to make sure there were no surprises waiting for her. And that was when she saw him.
He was a slightly built man, completely unremarkable in every way except one: he was following Charlie. No small feat, given Charlie’s experience in counter-espionage.
There was only one person who was arrogant enough to think he could get away with putting a tail on Charlie, and Viper was not in the mood to humor him. After disposing of Harry’s spy, she called Charlie and told him she’d arrived. Less than forty minutes later, she was seated across from him in the dark corner of a dive bar on the outer edge of the city, choking down a domestic brewed beer from a bottle.
Alina pulled the hood of her jacket up over head now, covering the bleached hair, and strode up the city street. She kept her hands in her pockets as she walked, her senses alert to her surroundings. Like every city in the world, this one had its good sections and its not-so-good sections. The deeper the shadows got, the sketchier the people became, and Viper was right at home amongst them. She moved confidently and deliberately, passing unnoticed through the night.
Charlie had been right to call her down. Not only did he have satellite footage of Angela being carried onto the Sea Queen, which was enough on its own to make the trip worthwhile, but he also had satellite images of the nameless assassin from Rittenhouse. He was no longer nameless, and he was someone Charlie knew well.
Viper’s lips tightened as she walked and she pulled out her clean phone. At least now she knew exactly what they were dealing with, and she had full authority to handle it. Dialing, she held the phone to her ear and listened to it ring, glancing behind her as she came to a stop at a cross street.
“Hey,” Damon answered, his voice a welcome sound in her ear. “What’s up?”
“I just finished,” she told him, jogging across the road and turning up a side street. “Are you alone?”
“I can be.” There was short silence and she heard the sound of the sliding door in her living room through the phone. “Go ahead,” he said a moment later.
“Angie’s definitely on the Sea Queen.”
“You have satellite confirmation?”
“Yes. And there’s more. The guy from Rittenhouse? Turns out Charlie knows him. His name is Ryan Harrington, and he supposedly died in an accident two years ago.”
“Well, that explains why I’m still searching for him.” There was a brief silence, then, “Why does Charlie know him?”
“He was in the training program for the Organization, but never made it past phase two. He failed a pysch eval and his overall scores were below average for his class. Any of that sound familiar?”
“Kyle March was dropped from the training,” he said after a moment.
“Yes, and for one of the same reasons; he failed a pysch evaluation as well.”
“Are you telling me that
Harry’s been using ex-students with mental issues?” Hawk demanded.
“It certainly seems like it,” she said, stopping at another side street and waiting for a line of cars to pass. “Charlie pulled all the files of the trainees who didn’t make it and ran a check on the names. Fourteen of them are unaccounted for, either reported as deceased or just missing.”
“I wonder how many of those are still alive. We made a serious dent in his people so far, certainly more than fourteen. So not all his puppets were Organization trained.”
“Yes, but there’s no way of knowing who was. We have to assume that anyone we run into was at least partially trained by the Organization.” Alina glanced at her watch and turned to hail a cab. “How’s it going on your end?”
“Michael’s cracked through the money trail,” he told her. “He’s compiling it all into a file with the reference markers. I’ll send it to Charlie when he’s finished.”
“And the other arrangements?” she asked as a cab pulled up next to her.
“I’m working on them. I did get a call from my foreman, though. The ranch is ready.”
“Good.” Alina opened the back door and got into the cab. “Chinatown,” she told the driver. “Sixth Street.”
“You got it.”
“I’ll be leaving in less than an hour,” she told Damon, switching to Russian so the driver wouldn’t understand. “I have to get some things together. We’re running out of time. Harry cleaned out his account in DC and transferred everything offshore today. He’s getting ready to move.”
“And Charlie?”
“Gave us the green light. He’s keeping the skies and sea clear.”
“When?”
“We go tomorrow night.”
The first thing Angela became aware of was pain. As the nothingness of sleep faded, excruciating agony replaced it, pulsing through her body. At the same time she became aware of the pain, she also became aware of voices. Memory flooded back to her in an instant and she just stopped herself from gasping in fear. Where was she? She was laying on something soft and comfortable, and there was a gentle rocking motion that she couldn’t place. She wasn’t in the truck anymore; of that she was certain.
The low voices seemed closer now and Angela realized that they hadn’t moved. Rather, as she came awake, they became clearer. Fighting to remain still, she tried to focus enough to hear what they were saying. After a few moments of listening intently, she was unable to make out even one word. Was that Spanish? She thought it might be, but the tones were so low that she couldn’t be certain.
Giving up, she tried to figure out where all this pain was coming from. Her entire left arm throbbed incessantly and when she tried to move her fingers, she couldn’t tell if she succeeded. Tamping down a sudden surge of panic, Angela tried to think. What had happened to her arm? She didn’t remember anything after being grabbed behind a truck at the rest stop.
The unmistakable sound of a door opening made her catch her breath, and the low voices suddenly stopped. There was a moment of complete silence and Angela knew someone else had entered the room. Resisting the urge to crack open one eye and peek, she lay perfectly still, listening.
“Wait outside,” a deep voice commanded in English and Angela felt a wave of relief go through her at the sound of a language she understood.
There was the sound of movement and then the door closed, leaving her alone with the newcomer.
“Well?”
The same voice spoke again and Angela froze.
“She’s fine,” another voice answered, and Angela relaxed. He hadn’t been talking to her. They didn’t know she was awake yet. “I’m keeping her heavily sedated. Her shoulder is dislocated.”
“What? How did that happen?”
“The man who brought her said she fell and popped it out when she tried to escape.”
“Can you put it back in?”
“I looked at it, but it’s been out for a long time. The swelling is extensive. It’s beyond my skill now. She will need surgery to replace it.”
“She must be in a lot of pain.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that will keep her from trying to escape again. Do you have enough sedative to keep her out of it?”
“Yes.”
“Then make her as comfortable as possible. There’s no need to keep her restrained any longer, not with a dislocated shoulder. Keep the door locked with two men outside at all times. No one in or out.” The deep voice paused and Angela sensed a presence move to stand next to her. “Has she had anything to drink?”
“No.”
“Get her some water. She’s no good to me dead.”
The presence moved away again.
“What about food?”
“Not yet. Let’s keep her too weak to cause any trouble.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door opened then closed a moment later, and Angela remained still, waiting to see if she was really alone. After a few moments of silence, she cracked one eye open, peering in the direction the voices had come from. The door was there, closed, and she couldn’t see anyone near it.
Moving her head cautiously, she opened both eyes. She was in a fairly spacious room, laying on a bed. Opposite the bed was a wall with a built-in closet and low dresser, both painted a glossy nautical blue. Above the dresser, a large flat-screen TV was mounted to the wall with a full entertainment center and a mini bar beneath it. To the right of the wall and in the corner, a door was ajar, giving her a glimpse into what looked like a bathroom. A long, matching nautical blue sofa was built into the wall to her right.
“What the hell?”
Angela shifted on the bed and pain surged through her arm again. She couldn’t hold back a groan and she closed her eyes again in agony. At least now she knew where the pain was coming from. She had a dislocated shoulder! It happened when she tripped and fell in the parking lot. How long ago was that? Apparently long enough for her shoulder to become too swollen to get the joint back in.
Angela frowned and stared at the ceiling, trying to think. She had no idea how much time had passed, where she was, or even who she was with. The gentle, repetitive rocking motion made her think she was on a boat of some kind, but where? And why was she no good to someone dead?!
She was just working herself into a state of near hysteria when the door opened abruptly and a slim, dark man came in carrying a tall bottle of water in one hand and a black medical bag in the other.
“So you’re awake,” he said in heavily accented English, closing the door.
Angela recognized the second voice from earlier and eyed him warily. The man didn’t say anything further, but brought the bottle of water over to set it on the small table beside the bed. He set the bag down and turned to her. When he leaned toward her, Angela gasped and tried to jerk away from him, letting out a cry of pain as she did so.
“I’m going to help you sit up so that you can drink,” the man said calmly. “Come. You won’t be able to lift yourself.”
Angela bit her lip. He was right. She was in so much pain that the thought of trying to push herself up brought tears to her eyes. Even if she struggled, all she would accomplish was more pain with no result. She looked at the bottle of water. Her tongue felt swollen and her mouth was like a desert. She was so thirsty! It would be stupid not to drink when she was offered the chance. Who knew when the next opportunity would come along.
The man leaned over her again and put his hands under her arms. When he lifted her to sit her up against the headboard, pain wracked through her with such ferocity that the room began to swim and she closed her eyes, breathing fast as she broke into a cold sweat. She gasped and waited for the sudden bout of nausea to pass. Leaning her head back and focusing on one spot across the room, Angela sat very still as her arm and shoulder throbbed unbearably. Slowly, the wave of sickness passed and the room stopped rotating around her.
She turned her head as the man held out a glass filled with water. Taking it with her right hand, sh
e lifted it to her lips and drained it thirstily. When she was finished, he took the glass from her and set it on the bedside table before opening his case.
“I’m the ship medic. I’m going to give you something for the pain,” he told her. “It will make you sleepy, but it will help give you some relief.”
“Ship?” Her voice was hoarse and Angela cleared her throat. “What ship?”
The man didn’t answer. He pulled a small glass bottle from the bag, then a needle and syringe. She averted her eyes from the needle quickly, memories of Stephanie’s ordeal in the car fresh in her mind. Tamping down panic, she focused on what had been said when they thought she was still asleep. She was no good to them dead. Repeating it like a mantra inside her head, she took a deep, steadying breath. They wanted to keep her comfortable, and if it would take some of this god-awful pain away, she was more than willing for them do so.
The medic finished filling the syringe from the bottle and turned to her, depressing the plunger slightly and tapping the syringe to ensure there were no errant air bubbles. He reached for her arm.
“Wait!” Angela gasped. “What is it?”
“Morphine.”
He took her arm and pushed up her sleeve. Angela turned her head away, biting her lip when she felt the sharp pinch as the needle went in. She inhaled deeply and then it was all over. He released her arm and turned back to his case, capping the needle and putting it away.
“You should start to feel some relief in a few minutes,” he said, closing his bag. “Just rest.”
He turned to go back toward the door and Angela watched him go with a mix of relief and frustration. He had given her good drugs for her pain, but she still had no idea where she was or who had taken her. In fact, the only thing she knew for sure was that her shoulder was dislocated and her arm was hanging at an awkward angle.
Shifting against the pillows, Angela tried to find a comfortable position before giving up and leaning her head back. She had to think. There had to be a way to get herself out of this room and off this ship. She just had to think. Staring up at the ceiling, she frowned as she tried to focus, but her thoughts were too scattered to come into any semblance of order. A comfortable numbness was stealing over her and Angela closed her eyes, exhaling in relief as the acute pain eased somewhat.