by Juno Rushdan
Just ahead was the Gallery Place Metro—one of the busiest stations in DC. A throng of passengers streamed in and out of the cavernous entrance. The Ghost wove between people, darting to the left then right, flowing like a stream of water around stones.
Don’t lose him. Stay close. Almost there.
Cole knocked a man out of the way and slipped through a narrow opening in the pedestrian herd. The entrance cleared ahead, and there was Novak.
The Ghost zipped past the station agent, Metrorail vending machines, and vaulted over the turnstile in one fluid motion. Steamrolling forward into the musty air and under the fluorescent lights of the station, Cole hopped the turnstile.
Maddox’s pounding footsteps weren’t far behind.
Cole cut to the east side of the Metro station, keeping sight of the Ghost. Escalators to the trains on the lower level were around a corner. Hopefully, passengers lining the moving staircase would slow Novak down.
What if he deployed the weapon in the station or on the Metrorail? The virus would spread fast with no way to contain it.
Novak hesitated at the escalators and snapped a glimpse over his shoulder, not looking the least bit winded. Their eyes met, and that freakish smile hitched up Novak’s mouth. In a flash, he whirled, facing the escalator.
Then he jumped onto the wide metal panel running between the escalators and slid down.
Shit!
Breathless, Cole reached the escalator and peered over the side. Down a long, steep descent running several stories below ground. Really fucking long and very steep.
Sonofabitch. Novak had no limits and kept pushing the line. Cole hated heights, but that lunatic was getting away, and Maddox was closing in. No time. No time to think.
He vaulted onto the steel divider flanked by the two escalators.
“Dude, you’re crazy,” quipped a teenage kid getting off.
It felt a hell of a lot crazier than it looked. With the constraints of the narrow panel, Cole was forced to roll onto his side as Novak had done. Maddox’s pounding footsteps drew closer. Not giving himself a chance to chicken out, he let go and gravity took him.
In a lightning rush, he zipped down cool, smooth steel feetfirst.
“Cole!” Maddox’s voice echoed overhead.
His jackhammering heart blasted into his throat, followed by his stomach. He slid down the tight divider like a slick stone. The faces of gawking onlookers were a blur. He braced, leaning back against the steep, eighty-foot decline. He almost swallowed his tongue.
To control his breathless descent, he thrust his forearms out to the sides.
Bad idea.
His sleeves dragged against the rubber handrails, the friction turning his quicksilver slide into a jerky ride. He feared flipping over the side onto the steel teeth of an escalator.
Weightless, helpless, he drew his arms in close to his body.
Not every Metro in DC had bumpers. The puck-sized discs didn’t stop a fall, only turned a person into tenderized meat by the time they reached the bottom. He was grateful not to face any here.
The ground below was a desperate hope rushing toward him, coming at him fast. But it was the longest eight seconds of his life. Wild exhilaration wrestled with fear.
Fear was better.
It’d keep him sharp and hungry. Keep him alive.
Novak reached the bottom and glanced up at Cole before disappearing in the direction of the Red line.
Swooshing off the metal panel, Cole’s feet stumbled finding the floor. The electric surge rising in him was akin to being born again. He fell to one knee and sprang forward, following the trail of twisting heads and necks craned over shoulders.
The corridor spilled onto the westbound platform. People stood shoulder to shoulder. Jam-packed with kids, from teens to middle-schoolers, in a patchwork of yellow, green, light-blue, and red T-shirts.
Damn it. Summer camp field trips.
Across the tracks, the eastbound side was worse. He glanced at the inbound train sign overhead—three minutes ETA.
Three minutes before the Ghost could be lost in the wind.
Dim lighting in the concave tunnel turned needle-in-a-haystack into finding a needle in a pine forest, at night. Red LED lights lined the bumpy tiles along the edge of the platform but did nothing to brighten the landscape. Chest heaving, he slowed his breathing while scanning for a dark ball cap, black backpack. Anyone in long sleeves.
He shouldered past people, weaving around a huddle of kids and chaperones in light blue T-shirts that read Ride the Summer Wave. Every ten steps, he checked his rear, ensuring he hadn’t missed the Ghost, somehow overlooked him in the sea of passengers.
Maddox made it down, rushing onto the eastbound side across the tracks. She scoured the platform.
Cole pressed forward. Most bodies stayed stationary or paced one to two feet within a localized space. He caught glimpses of one person with a blue ball cap and backpack. Drifting slowly. Snaking around shifting figures. Cole bulldozed his way to the thin male.
Metallic bitterness coated his tongue. He clasped a hand on the man’s shoulder and wrenched him around.
A wide-eyed young man with olive-toned skin stared back. “Hey, buddy, what’s your problem?”
“Sorry.” Cole raised his palms and backed off.
Red LED lights across the tracks on Maddox’s side flashed. A train was coming.
Two minutes until his westbound train arrived. He stepped up his pace through the milling flock of people, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. His sixth sense, the electric worm, carved a wriggling path from his skull down his spine, fizzing and spitting sparks across his nerve endings.
The rumble of the eastbound train resounded. Cole glanced back to see lights and Maddox peering down the tunnel at the inbound train. Dread churned his gut.
He faced forward and caught the Ghost’s steely gaze at the other end of the same platform. No baseball cap. The maniacal grin on full display. A moment. Less. A millisecond. Cole pushed toward him, storming through the gaggle of day campers.
Novak made his move. A bloodcurdling scream rent the air as the Ghost leapt off the platform, arm locked around a woman, hauling her over the side along with him. He let go of her and dashed across the westbound tracks, avoiding the electrified third rail.
Bounding over a strip of lighting in the middle, Novak rushed across the eastbound tracks. He jumped, pressing his hands onto the platform, and lifted his body with the fluidity of a gymnast. The flat-faced train whizzed into the station on the opposite side, concealing Maddox and the Ghost from sight.
Red lights flashed on Cole’s platform. He ran to help the fallen woman. Elbowing anyone in his way, he rushed to the far end.
The eastbound train on the other side stopped and the doors opened.
Cole swept paralyzed gawkers to the side and reached down to the plump woman in the light yellow T-shirt, Pirates and Princesses Summer Camp written across the front. Out of his peripheral vision, cowering children shrieked and whimpered.
“Come on.” He beckoned to the stunned woman clambering to her feet. “Take my hand.”
Chimes dinged from the train across the way, and his skin prickled. Doors were about to close.
“Let’s go, lady,” he snapped at her, trying to get her moving.
Lights of the approaching westbound train on his side did the trick.
A horn blared, kicking the woman into action, hustling to the platform. She grabbed both his hands and he held tight to her forearms and heaved. Thankfully, she was lighter than she looked, but his back still protested. A black kid in his late teens, with headphones on, helped him tug her the rest of the way up onto the platform.
“You okay?” Cole asked.
She nodded, and tears streaked down her cheeks. Covering her face with her hands, she broke into sobs. Yellow T-shirts
gathered around her, and Cole shot to his feet.
The train on the other side pulled out. The steel cars vanished down the dark tunnel. He swept a frantic gaze over the platform. Empty.
Cole’s blood drained from his head as a hot ball of panic burned a hole in his gut.
Maddox and the Ghost were both gone.
Cole grabbed his phone.
* * *
Metro, Washington, DC
12:46 p.m. EDT
On the crammed train, Aleksander slid between passengers, working his way to the car door. Folding around people, smooth, fluid, he didn’t draw a single glance.
He grasped the door handle and looked over his shoulder.
Lovely Agent Kinkade had hopped onto the seventh car. She was trapped well behind him, since he’d made it onto the third from the front.
Two minutes. That’s how long she had to close the gap before the train pulled into the next station. Before he disappeared.
He glided onto the second car, sliding the door shut.
She wouldn’t make it. Despite valiant effort. She was a determined fighter.
It’d been a shock seeing her in the lobby and a disappointment to find her companion glued to her side, Scarface ever bound in gravitational orbit around her.
Following his instincts to split up and have Val stay at a different hotel with half their supplies paid off. Luck was on his side. But how did they find him?
He’d been careful, kept a low profile.
Yet as he’d returned from scouting the location he’d chosen, there she stood in the hotel lobby. Seeing her caught him off guard in the most exquisite way, and he’d faltered.
A mistake he wouldn’t repeat.
Pressing forward, he snaked past passengers, maintaining his lead. The train slowed into the Judiciary Square station. He skated around three teenage boys to the opening doors.
He’d lose her, but she’d keep coming. And along with her, several agents and, of course, the man with the scar. He disliked having his hand forced, but it left him no choice. The situation must be remedied.
The doors opened. Aleksander leapt out, zipping through the shuffling exchange of passengers, and darted for the staircase. Grasping the railing, he peered over the side. Agent Kinkade pushed through the crowd, sandwiched in the muddle of people. She looked up, catching his gaze. Stilled, as if debating, then drove on. Ever onward, Kinkade.
He pounded up the steps to the main Metro level and dashed to the staircase leading outside. Sunlight cut through the artificial glare of the station. Warm, fresh air ripe with good fortune caressed his skin.
The natural choice, the smart one—the one Agent Maddox would expect—was for Aleksander to turn right, head east three blocks to the bustling Union Station.
A person could disappear in the yawning maw of the transportation hub that spat out multiple exits. So easy to be swallowed up in one’s pick of Metro or commuter rail lines spread across eighteen platforms and twenty-two tracks and at least ten different bus lines. Better than the Americans’ Baskin-Robbins thirty-one flavors. Sweeter too.
But his choice was one of necessity, and Agent Kinkade had no way of knowing that. She would assume she’d lost him in the bowels of Union Station. When she emerged from the Metro, she’d follow instinct and look in the wrong direction.
He sprinted through the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial and veered hard to the south. Under different circumstances, he would’ve chosen east, removed his shirt and donned a new hat from the options in his bag, and strolled, blending in.
This was the hand he was dealt. He would play it. To win.
Hitting E Street, he then darted south, heading back to the hotel.
He yanked off the long-sleeve top, revealing a simple white T-shirt, and threw on a green bucket hat, tightening the cinch cord under his chin.
Five hundred yards. A breeze. He blasted across Fifth Street, dodging cars and joggers. Bristling energy, sharp and electric, drove him. So close now. He would not be denied. Val would be at his side, and together, they’d usher in the four horsemen.
Aleksander dashed through the traffic on Sixth Street, ignoring the symphony of honks and squawking brakes. One more block.
Holding a steady stride, he coasted.
His body nimble, his limbs light as air.
Slowing, he strode into the restaurant on Seventh. The hostess at the front smiled.
“I’m meeting someone,” he said, winded. “There’s my party now.” He pointed, gliding past her. Cutting through the lunchtime bustle, he breezed into the Hotel Monaco, which connected to the restaurant, and headed for the staircase.
Two men stood at the front desk. Both had been on the yacht, not appearing damaged from the explosion. Agents. Cockroaches.
Aleksander enjoyed playing cat and mouse, but it was time to return to the top of the food chain where he and his son alone did the chasing. He raced up the stairs to the fourth floor, taking off the hat and glasses, and whipped the door open. Rounding the corner, he hurried to his room. He popped the key card into the slot. Green dots illuminated, and he slipped inside.
At the safe, he entered the code and retrieved the canister of smallpox. The rest of the equipment he needed to execute his plan was with Val in another hotel. The suitcase he pulled from under the bed contained everything he required for now. He stripped, changing into black pants, a generic white dress shirt, and the hotel staff jacket he’d lifted during the distraction of their shift turnover earlier this morning.
In the bathroom, he dragged a washcloth over his face and applied the disguise he’d procured—along with the rest of the items in the suitcase—from his contact.
Here in Washington, DC, with enough money, he could get almost anything as easily as ordering room service. Almost. The specialized access credentials and equipment Val was modifying for the next step of the plan could only have been obtained thanks to the assistance of the industrious information broker, Daedalus. The man was a fount of intelligence, thanks to his bevy of spies, and his access to resources was staggering.
The black wig Aleksander shifted in place itched, but as problems went, that was nil. A glued-on chevron mustache, cotton balls stuffed in his mouth between his teeth and cheeks for a jowly look, and a pair of glasses transformed his face into one even he didn’t recognize.
He tossed what he could into the suitcase, his blood pressure rising over this willy-nilly scramble. The room door slapped shut behind him when he left. Hunching his shoulders, he carted the wheeled suitcase down the hall. Turning his left foot inward altered his gait, adding a subtle limp. His nerves were strung as tight as his garrote around a target’s throat. He had to hurry.
Timing was everything.
The two agents from the lobby rounded the corner, coming from the elevator. The big, bald one held out his hand, and the other handed him a generic taupe key card attached to a chain. They must’ve swiped it from housekeeping.
Lowering his gaze and rolling his shoulders into the hunch, Aleksander strode past them. Not a second glance from them in his direction. They suspected nothing.
He slapped the button for the elevator. Getting a new burner phone was next on his list, followed by contacting Daedalus. He needed information on Agent Maddox Kinkade. Fast.
Planning and adaptation were his strengths. Seeing the how. He and Val had time to deal with this contingency.
The elevator chimed. The doors opened. Ducking in, he tapped the lobby button.
His plan for the biological weapon had come together easily. Such a brilliant target. It was as though the gods had set the gift of glorious vengeance in the palms of his weary hands. His retribution would be recorded as the greatest tragedy in American history. A hammer blow to the country’s stability, showing the entire world the fragility of their security.
He strolled off the elevator, spott
ing Agent Kinkade and Scarface at the far end of the compact lobby. Scarface had a hand pressed to her cheek, anxiety etched across his features.
Aww, the lovers. How grateful they should be.
Aleksander would redefine their meaning of fear.
Scarface threw his arms around the pretty Kinkade in a strangling hug. Her hands lifted as if to reciprocate, but she hesitated.
Fascinating. Aleksander slowed but didn’t stop moving.
She broke free of Scarface, shaking her head and stabbing a finger toward the elevator. His face blanked.
Trouble in paradise? If not, there soon would be. A thank-you gift from Aleksander.
Agent Kinkade answered her phone, making a beeline for the elevators, Scarface plastered to her side. Lowering his head, Aleksander quickened his hobbled gait.
They crossed the lobby toward him. Dark excitement shot through Aleksander, tingles racing over his skin.
“Harper, slow down. Wait. He came back to the hotel?” Kinkade looked at Scarface, gaze passing right over him, as they hurried to the elevator. “What room?”
When they passed, Aleksander had nearly brushed her arm. He savored the thrill of this win.
He was tempted to glance back at her. The need was a tangible ache in his teeth, but the risk wasn’t worth it. He’d look into those exquisite eyes again soon enough.
On his terms.
Chapter 22
Gray Box Headquarters, Northern Virginia
3:10 p.m. EDT
Tension rolled through the conference room in a cresting wave. A charged silence pressed in. Failure and frustration were in the air, a smell as real as sweat and stale coffee.
Maddox massaged her temples, elbows propped on the arms of her chair. “Please, run us through how we lost Novak in the hotel one more time.”
Harper stood at the foot of the black glass table, rubbing her hands, delicate features pinched tight. “I tapped into the hotel security feed using the facial recognition program, as well as the Ponte restaurant connected to it. At 1:13 p.m., Novak entered the restaurant. He crossed into the hotel at 1:14 and hit the fourth floor at 1:18, entering room 416.”