by Jack Mars
The MP5 pounded large holes in the hood of the police car. Smoke billowed from beneath it, and the distance between them grew as the cruiser lost power. Alan cut the wheel left and the truck leaned again. The last thing Zero saw of the second cruiser was orange flames erupting from the hood and the two officers inside leaping out.
Zero pulled the rear door closed. “I figure we have less than five minutes before there’s a chopper on us. Alan, you have someplace for us to go?”
He hesitated. “I do… but you’re not going to like it much.”
“Anything is better than this.”
“Sure,” said Reidigger. “Just remember you said that.”
*
“I don’t like this much,” Zero muttered.
“Told you so,” Alan retorted quietly. “Let’s just get it done and move on.”
The place he’d taken them looked like a fairly ordinary garage, but it was nothing short of a chop shop. More than that, Zero recognized the tattoos of the two young men who were currently doing inventory of the SWAT van in one of the bays (with the door securely closed behind it, of course) and knew who they were. Members of a local gang, the Imps, if he recalled correctly. This was the kind of place they brought stolen cars to get stripped down and sold for parts.
Which is exactly what we’re doing here, he reminded himself. Well—it was half of what they were doing there. The other half was arming known gang members.
“All right, old man.” One of the kids hopped out of the truck. He wore a black tank top and jeans that hung far too low from his hips. He had a silver stud in his chin, of all places, and kept his head shaved. “The truck and everything in it for a car.”
“What have you got?” Alan asked.
“Got a 2004 Civic with about a hundred twenty K on it. The VIN is scratched off but the plates are legit.”
Alan folded his arms. “Stolen?”
The kid shook his head. “Not this one. We just use it for cruising. Used to be a digger, back in the day, so lots of aftermarket parts. She can handle herself just fine.”
“Digger?” Zero asked.
“Drag racing,” Alan replied.
“We should keep a couple of the guns,” Zero noted.
“No way,” the kid said immediately. “The truck and everything in it, or no deal.”
Mischa stepped forward slightly, as if to intimidate the kid, but he merely grinned at her.
Alan put out a hand and gently touched her shoulder. “We’ll take it,” he told the kid.
Five minutes later the three of them were in a car older than Mischa and on their way to put some distance between them and Washington.
“You know they’ll probably just sell them, right?” said Alan. “The guns? Either that or they’ll do something stupid and get busted with them, and end up in jail anyway.”
“Right,” Zero agreed quietly. Even so, Shaw’s words rang in his head: Sometimes, strategic alliances are necessary. The CIA had aligned with Bright out of perceived necessity. Zero had tased an agent, stolen a SWAT truck, and traded guns to gang members for the same reason.
And we’re the good guys.
“Once we’re clear of DC, I want to find a payphone and try to call Sara,” he said. “I need to know she’s all right.”
“Absolutely,” Alan agreed. “Until then—we need a heading.”
“New York,” said Mischa. “We need to find Bright and cut the head from the snake.”
Zero shook his head. “I don’t think that’s the play here. Shaw is going to make it known that it was us. Considering what they’ve asked of Bright, I’m sure he’ll share what he now knows about us. We were already targets before, now we’re just targets to more people.” Not just Bright, but the CIA, the police, and Krauss would all be looking for them. “We know Bright operates out of New York. There’s no way we’ll get the drop on him, even if we could find him.”
“So we’re on our own,” said Alan. “And we can’t get close to the one person who we know is behind this.”
“There might be someone else we could get close to.” Zero rubbed his chin. “We should find Bixby.”
Alan scoffed. “Last time you found him it took six weeks and he was in a remote cabin in the Canadian tundra. What makes you think you can find him again?”
“A hunch,” said Zero with a shrug. “Head to Bethesda. There’s someone we need to have a heart-to-heart with.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Sara awoke. The dark curtain over the only window in the basement kept any outside light from filtering in. Was it day? Was it night? Her phone was still off. She had no idea what time it was. Or what day it was. She felt like she’d slept for a week.
At last she rose from the bed and trudged up the stairs from the basement. She didn’t bring the gun. She didn’t try to muffle her footsteps. If someone was in the house and they wanted her dead, they could have shot her in her sleep.
It was silent in the kitchen. She took a jug of orange juice out of the refrigerator, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink. To her right, the soles of the dead man’s boots stared back at her from the short hall just outside the bathroom.
For better or worse, no one had come for her. Not assassins or commandos or her family or friends.
Were they even alive?
Do you care?
Yes—on some level, she did. Of course she did. She would prefer them be alive than not. But if they weren’t… well, it was out of her hands, wasn’t it?
What’s wrong with me?
She was tired. That’s what was wrong. Not tired in the sense of physical exhaustion; just tired. Mentally, emotionally, bone-tired. She felt as if her soul itself had been dredged of anything that might have made her feel something.
Sara stalked through the house slowly, checked each room to make sure she was alone. Satisfied, she returned to the basement and dressed in jeans, sneakers, a sensible black top, and a light jacket. She didn’t need it for the weather but wanted the pockets. The small black pistol she’d taken from Alan went into the left pocket. Her phone, into the right.
She emptied her shoulder bag of art supplies and brought it with her upstairs. She relieved the dead man of his gun, a silver pistol that felt too big and bulky for her hand. There was a hammerless revolver in the coat closet; she took that too. She pulled out the utensil drawer in the kitchen, which was a few inches shorter than it should have been, by design. She reached into the empty space and groped in the darkness for the Glock that she knew was secured to the rear of the cabinet behind the drawer.
There were others in the house, she was certain, but she wasn’t about to waste time searching for them. She had enough.
Enough for what, though?
Enough to feel safe?
When was the last time you actually felt safe?
If she really thought about it, it probably hadn’t been since her mother was still alive. She could barely recall what life was like back then. Of course she remembered being a child, and things that happened, but how she actually felt… that eluded her.
She’d felt—secure, she supposed was a good word for it. And then her mother was gone, and her dad did his best, but that sudden loss of her mom had shaken her. She had been only twelve at the time. Twelve years old when she learned just how quickly someone could be taken, or how quickly she could be taken from them.
She hadn’t truly felt safe since.
A strange chime suddenly broke the silence of the house. Sara sucked in a breath at the sound of it, foreign and intrusive as it was on her thoughts. It took her a moment to realize it was a phone ringtone, and then it took another moment to recognize that it was not her own, which was still powered down in her pocket.
It was coming from the dead man.
She knelt beside him, not looking at his face as she reached into a pocket and pulled out a cell in a durable black rubber case.
And then she answered it. At least, she pressed the button to answer the call, but she said nothing, just b
reathing into the phone.
“You didn’t check in,” said a gruff male voice.
“He’s dead,” Sara told him.
“Who is this?!”
“You don’t know?” She chuckled mirthlessly. “You people tried to kill me, and failed, and I’ve been home all night. How embarrassing that must be.”
“Garfield is dead?” the man asked.
Sara wrinkled her nose. “Garfield? That was his name?” She dared herself to look at the man’s face, which had bloated a bit in the night. Still, he didn’t look like a Garfield to her.
“When we find you…” the man threatened.
“Get to it,” Sara interrupted. She ended the call and tossed the phone down. She knew she probably shouldn’t have done that—shouldn’t have answered the call at all, much less taunted the people who were actively trying to kill her—but she simply didn’t care. She felt as if she’d been scraped clean of the ability to give a shit.
But she couldn’t stay in the house. That would be suicide now. She powered up her phone—they already knew where she was at the moment anyway—and saw that she had a single voicemail waiting for her, though she didn’t recognize the number.
“Sara, it’s Dad,” he said on the recording. He sounded frazzled and worn. “Listen, I’m with Alan and Mischa, and we’re… well, we’re trying to get to the bottom of all this. I just want to know that you’re safe, okay? So please, if you get this, contact Penny. She’ll get the message to me. I love you.”
They hadn’t come for her. He was with Alan and Mischa, and she was in the most obvious place she could think of to be found, and they hadn’t come for her.
Sara sighed, and she leaned a hip against the counter as she did her daughterly duty and sent a text to the number she had saved for Penny. It was a secure line that her dad had made her put in her phone in case of emergencies. She kept the text simple and clear.
It’s Sara. I’m safe. Keeping the phone off.
And before Penny could reply, if she was even going to reply, she shut the phone down again. She slung the shoulder bag across her chest and retrieved her bike from the garage, walking it through the foyer to the front door.
Where do I go now? she wondered as she pedaled quickly down the street. She could go to Camilla’s place. Her former roommate from Florida had come north for rehab and decided to stay. But Camilla’s current roommate was kind of a bitch, and Sara couldn’t rely on her not posting something to Instagram. She could go to Maddie, the founder of the trauma support group Common Bonds. But anyone who knew Sara would know Maddie and check for her there.
But there was a place she could go. A place she could hole up without disturbing anyone. Last time she’d checked, it was still closed due to a lice outbreak in one of the daycare classes. It was still closed, it would be an ideal spot to lie low for a bit.
Sara increased her speed, enjoying the sunshine and the wind in her hair, as she pedaled toward the community center.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Todd Strickland was uncomfortable in the Oval Office. There seemed to be something sacred about the place that kept his spine straight and tension in his shoulders. Not to mention that any visit to the Oval Office also warranted a suit, which he just couldn’t relax in. He was a jeans and T-shirt sort of guy. Even his dress blues, his ASU from when he was still an active Ranger, had always felt stuffy and overly formal.
So he was glad that this particular meeting was being held in the Situation Room, the president’s command center-slash-conference room in the West Wing basement, rather than the office. It was informal enough that he could get away with jeans as long as he wore a shirt with a collar. At least that’s what Penny had told him.
But then again, she’d shown up in a hot pink V-neck and lime-green pants.
Penny sat across from him at the long, polished table as she manipulated the screen at the far wall with her open laptop in front of her, reviewing the details of their final security briefing before the Cairo Accord.
“As you can see,” she was saying, “we not only referenced the CIA database, but we ran all names through the FBI’s system, as well as consulting third-party background check software. This is the partial list of those who have been fully vetted thus far.”
Thus far? Todd suppressed a smile at her proper British accent, despite how improperly she usually spoke. Her personality was a strange one, like someone had stuffed a Cambridge professor into the body and mind of a feisty Latina.
He had absolutely no idea why she found him interesting in the slightest. They’d only been dating for a couple of months, but half of that time he spent feeling like the high school quarterback was dating the president of the chess club.
“Let’s talk security personnel,” said Vice President Barkley. She sat at the right-hand side of President Rutledge, who had spoken very little so far in the meeting and seemed content to let Barkley take point on it. He’d already made it very clear that the Cairo Accord was the VP’s show more than his own, and wasn’t taking any credit where it wasn’t due.
That was one of a long list of things to like about Rutledge. Another was that he too had opted to forgo a tie and jacket, and had even rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. Todd took it as a sign that he felt at ease around his new lead agent on EOT.
Strickland cleared his throat. “Well, Madam Vice President, aside from EOT—”
Joanna Barkley held up a hand to stop him. “Please, let’s dispense with the ‘madam’ while we’re able.” A thin smile passed her lips. “I’m not even married and it makes me feel like a grandmother.”
“Certainly, ma’am.” Todd frowned. “Then… what should I call you?”
“Well, ‘Joanna’ feels a bit too informal. How about, Ms. Barkley?”
“All right, ma—um, Ms. Barkley.”
Across from him, Penny bit her lip to keep from grinning.
“Aside from EOT,” he continued, “we’ll have four teams of Secret Service agents available, all of them with top clearance and vetted by both myself and Dr. León. We’re also calling in some support from Agent Mendel and the Is-Pal joint task force…”
Rutledge winced. “Good grief, is that really what they’re calling it?”
“Uh, for now, sir,” Todd confirmed. He couldn’t disagree; it was a terrible name, and he doubted Talia Mendel had much to do with it. “They’ll be sending a dozen of their people to assist, which we’ll use primarily for external security and perimeter sweeps.”
“And what about attachés?” Barkley asked.
“Penny?” Todd gestured to her with a hand. “I mean, Dr. León.”
Penny flashed him a smirk. “Each administration has been notified that their maximum permissible attaché is six. We’ve been provided names, photographs, fingerprints, medical histories, records, the works. All of that has been cross-reference with the CIA database, and we’ve only had to discount three people—all in all, a pretty positive note, if I may say so.”
“On what grounds were they discounted?” Barkley asked.
“Nothing serious, just incomplete information,” Penny replied. “We’re being as thorough as possible to avoid any potential…”
She trailed off as one of the double doors to the Situation Room opened. Todd twisted slightly in his seat to see a tall agent in a black suit enter. Agent Clark, if he wasn’t mistaken.
“Mr. President, Madam Vice President,” said the agent. “Director Barren would like to see you. It’s urgent.”
Rutledge beckoned with a hand. “Send him in.”
A moment later DNI Barren swept into the room. He nodded quickly to Rutledge and Barkley, without so much as a glance toward Strickland or Penny.
“Sir, there’s a situation,” he said tersely.
“Well, we’re in the right room for it, aren’t we?” Rutledge leaned back in his chair.
Now Barren cast a glance at Strickland as he said, “It’s a… security concern, sir.”
“Then you’re in good comp
any,” the president noted.
The DNI hesitated, but when it became clear that Rutledge was not going to dismiss Todd or Penny, Barren continued. “It’s about Agent Zero.”
Zero?
Todd leaned forward in his seat. So did Rutledge.
“Go on,” the president said cautiously.
“CIA Director Edward Shaw was abducted during the commute from his home to Langley this morning,” Barren reported. “After his car was found abandoned, agents tracked him to a vacant commercial property, where they found Shaw with Zero. According to agents on the scene, Zero pretended as if he had rescued Shaw from captors, just before stealing a SWAT van and evading capture.”
Rutledge held up a hand. “I’m sorry, David, that is quite a bit to process.”
Todd frowned at Penny in a way that he hoped was saying, What has he gotten himself into?
She gave him a small shrug in return.
“What did he want with Shaw?” Rutledge asked. “Did he mention?”
“No, sir. Director Shaw is currently under anesthesia, getting his jaw wired shut.”
“Christ,” the president murmured.
“There’s more,” the DNI said. “Zero is also wanted in connection to the recent bombing of his former home in New York, two stolen vehicles, and the homicide of five people in Zurich.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” the president said shortly. He rubbed his temples. “David, we get on a plane to Egypt in less than three hours. What do you want me to do with this information?”
“Send me,” Todd heard himself saying. Penny looked up at him in alarm as all eyes were suddenly on him. He cleared his throat. “Sir. You can send me. I’ve tracked him down before; I can do it again. I’ll bring him in.”
“Absolutely not.” Rutledge shook his head. “I need you, both of you, on that plane with me. You’ve been working on this tirelessly; I won’t compromise security by letting you run off after him again.” He sighed and murmured, “Retirement just does not suit that man, does it?”