by Robert Boren
“We need to make sure that gets out,” Ted said.
“Uh oh, train just stop,” Mr. Black said. “We go. Wish us luck.”
The call ended.
“Dammit, I hope they don’t get pinched,” Tex said.
Ivan smiled at him. “Those guys can get away. Trust me. We need to check into the killing he mentioned. If we can leak proof of Mateo killing a prostitute in Manhattan, we can blow this whole thing wide open. We know who his associates are. Where there’s one rat acting like a rat, there’s usually more.”
***
“Dark down here,” Mr. White said, pulling out his phone and using the flashlight feature. “We can’t stay on train.”
“Been down here before,” Mr. Black said. “Remember? Let’s get out.”
“What about others on car?” Mr. White whispered.
“Never mind them. Let’s go.” The two men got out of their seats and walked to the end of the car, going out the door onto the small platform between the cars, jumping to the ground. “Don’t step on tracks.”
“What, you think I moron?” Mr. White asked. They walked along, the air stuffy but warmer than outside. “How far?”
“Penn Station not too far. Remember maintenance tunnels there? Easy to enter.”
“Long walk, no?” Mr. White asked.
“We going that direction before train stopped, dummy. We passed 30th Street. Penn Station on 31st Street.”
The gravel crunched under their feet as they walked, nearing the end of their train, the glow of cellphones shining through the grimy windows of the cars.
“We can’t wander around Penn Station,” Mr. White said. “Cameras everywhere.”
“Cameras in here, but we can avoid. I’ve seen three already. Move over closer to wall.”
Mr. White nodded and they moved in closer, speeding up to a trot. They rounded a corner and then took another branch.
“You sure right way?” Mr. Black asked, sounding out of breath.
“Yes, I sure. Remember like yesterday. Watch for door on right. Might have to force. Usually locked.”
They kept going, getting to the door after a moment. Mr. White smiled, trying the door knob. It opened. “Fantastic security.”
Mr. Black snickered. “Probably where workers fire up dope.”
They got into the dark hallway, light coming out of an open door about fifty yards down.
“Quiet,” Mr. White whispered. They slowed down as they approached the door, Mr. Black peeking around the corner.
“Janitor’s room,” Mr. Black said. “Hey, there uniforms inside. We put on.”
“They fit?” Mr. White asked.
“Who cares? Like aprons. Come.”
They got inside, both of them putting on the yellow garments over their clothes. Mr. White grinned. “Look, mops. We take.”
“Finally job you qualified for,” Mr. Black quipped.
“Shut up.” The two pushed the mop handles, the yellow buckets rolling along the dirty floor, out into the hallway. The buzz of people grew louder as they got to the entrance to Penn Station.
“We need to make mess, mop up for while,” Mr. Black said.
They entered the busy station, people rushing from place to place. Mr. White saw a coffee cup sitting next to a bench. He knocked it off with his elbow, the drink falling to the floor and opening, spreading beige liquid over the floor in front of the bench. Mr. Black got out two yellow spill caution signs and put them around the floor, as Mr. White started to mop slowly.
“You look like you milk job,” Mr. Black said.
Mr. White turned to him and grinned. “Yes, I look like real subway worker.” Mr. Black snickered, then froze for a moment as a group of NYPD officers rushed in, heading down the long hallway past them.
“It working,” Mr. Black said. “Finish, we roll down closer to exit and get out.”
“They might have us on video,” Mr. White whispered.
“Yes, might, so we need to get back to hotel. When we get against wall over there, I knock down something else. Several coffee cups there, see them? You get us Uber.”
They got over there, Mr. White elbowing the first cup, hitting the floor, but empty. “Dammit.” He hit another, and it spread black coffee on the floor. “Pay dirt.”
Mr. Black used the Uber app to get a ride. “Okay, up we go.”
“Duck into restroom and take off uniforms,” Mr. White said. They rushed in there, going into stalls, coming out with out the uniforms, running up the steps to 8th Avenue, their Uber car there as they got to the curb. They piled in, the driver taking off.
***
Charles and Jean sat in the reception room, the TV running video of riots in London.
“This is bad,” Jean said.
“Reminds me of Paris,” Charles said, his eyes not leaving the screen.
Jean shook his head, chuckling. “Whatever. Wonder who leaked the story about the DNA?”
“If I find out, they’ll be erased.”
“We’ll be lucky if we survive this,” Jean said. “The Royals will back away. Watch and see.”
“This is far from over. We should be hearing about the operation in Southern California any time now.”
“It didn’t work,” Jean said. “Should’ve happened hours ago. You know that. Try to call them. The whole team is probably dead.”
“We weren’t sure exactly when the targets would get to town. They probably got delayed until this morning.”
Jean laughed, getting up to grab a Danish off the table. “Keep telling yourself that.”
“I’ll prove you wrong,” Charles said, picking up his cellphone and sending a text. “We’ll hear from them soon.”
Jean chuckled as he sat back down on the couch. “Well, I hope you’re right, Charles, but I doubt it.”
The minutes ticked by, Charles looking more and more nervous.
“See?” Jean asked.
“Shut up.”
“Whoa, look, the mob just overtook the cops in front of the PM’s residence,” Jean said, his eyes wide. “They’re crashing the door.”
There was the sound of machine gun fire, citizen protesters dropping to the ground in front of the residence.
“Dammit,” Charles muttered under his breath. “We’d better figure out how to get out of here. Can you imagine what the citizens of the UK are gonna think about that?”
Jean nodded. “Well, we agree on that, at least. Coming here was like jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, to use an American colloquialism.”
Charles nodded. “We need to leave, but that’ll be easier said than done.”
“No return message from your California team?”
Charles picked up his phone and looked. “No, but it’s very early morning there. They might be asleep.”
Jean shook his head. Then a special bulletin flashed across the screen, video going to Manhattan. The announcer came on.
Manhattan is in shock, after Secretary General Mateo of the UN was brutally murdered tonight. A city-wide search is underway at this hour. The location of the murder was 7th Avenue and 44th Street, said by some witnesses to be an Asian massage parlor frequented by UN dignitaries. There has been no confirmation of that at this hour.
“And the UN is destroyed by their inability to contain their sexual desires once again,” Jean quipped, Charles shooting him a dirty glance.
Charles’s phone rang. He picked it up. “Rayan. Wonder what that son of a bitch wants?”
“No love for Rayan now?”
Charles shook his head, taking the call and putting it on speaker.
“Where are you?” Charles asked.
“Manhattan. You’ve heard the news, right?”
“Yeah, just saw it on TV. What’s on your mind?”
“Two things,” Rayan said. “The Dulzura attack failed. Franklin and Davis turned the tables, killed all fourteen of our Mercs. We’ll need to find another outfit. That was two thirds of the operatives that Casey’s outfit had, and the
y had already lost several men in the failed Wrightwood attack. He’s done.”
“Have him killed,” Charles said. “He knows way too much.”
“You are truly insane,” Rayan said.
“I’ll take that under advisement. Better hope we never meet again.”
“Blah blah blah. We’ll be lucky to survive this mess and you know it. The survivors want a meeting. Today. Especially the Justice. They’re on the verge of pulling all funding from this operation and disappearing into the woodwork. Speaking of the woodwork, where the hell are you?”
Jean snickered. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
“Shut the hell up,” Charles said.
“Oh, the silly Frenchman is with you, huh? You know the citizens of the UK know the truth about Maggie. If you’re in the UK, you’re probably dead. Only a matter of time. Oh, and nice going on the failed hit of Lance. Now we have another group of enemies. You know about his family.”
“I didn’t hit Lance,” Charles said. “No bullshit. That was somebody else, and it was probably done to get us fighting each other. They made sure not to kill the bastard.”
Rayan chuckled. “Glad I have an escape route. You up for the meeting or not?”
Charles sighed. “I’ll do it by phone only. That okay?”
“That’ll do. I’ll shoot for eleven am, eastern standard time. If it’s a go I’ll call you at that time. Talk to you soon.”
The call went dead.
“That’s one insufferable little creep,” Charles said. “We never should’ve brought him in. He was supposed to give us an edge on intel, and so far he’s done nothing.”
Jean snickered. “I’m not even sure he’s on our side. That meeting might be a good way to lead the authorities right to us.”
***
Robbie and Morgan were at their computers in the intel room. Frank and Jane came in, Lucy trotting alongside them.
“You’re up awfully early,” Jane said as she sat in front of her machine.
“I’m trying to find info about Justin and Katie,” Robbie said. “Nothing. I’m worried sick.”
“You guys are up pretty early too,” Morgan said. “What’s up?”
“My hacking of the principal’s computers isn’t going fast enough,” Frank said, pulling his chair up closer to the table. “The clock is running, and I want this to be over.”
“Did you see the video of London police firing machine guns at rioters last night?” Morgan asked.
“No way,” Frank said. “Really? They actually did that?”
“Yeah, and it’s driving the population completely nuts. The demonstrations and rioting are bigger than what we’re seeing in Paris now.”
“Oh, God,” Jane said, eyes wide as she opened the video. “It’s on YouTube. They killed a lot of citizens.”
“What were they doing?” Frank asked, rolling his chair next to hers.
“They were right at the door of 10 Downing Street,” Jane said. “That’s going to lead to a big reaction. Why were the people rioting like this?”
“Somebody leaked the true DNA results from that hospital bombing,” Robbie said, not looking away from his screen. “Maggie’s DNA wasn’t there.”
Frank chuckled. “Oh boy. Yeah, I could see the shit hitting the fan over that.”
“Language,” Jane said.
Robbie smiled. “It’s okay, mom.”
***
Colleen woke up, hanging upside down by her seatbelt in the back seat of the battered Jeep. She hurt everywhere, but her right leg was the worst. She could tell by the bend that it was broken. She reached over to touch Steve on the arm. His skin was cold. She broke into sobs, then looked up front. Justin was hanging there, blood all around his face. Katie wasn’t there, the windshield and side window where she was sitting broken out. As she shook off the grief and the pain, the smell hit her. Gasoline. Get out. Wait, there’s no source of combustion. Get out anyway. She fumbled for her seatbelt buckle, finding it and pulling hard. It released, dropping her on the ceiling of the car, her broken leg on fire with pain. She pulled herself out the broken side window, hitting the rocks and dirt on the passenger side of the broken Jeep Wrangler. What time is it? The sun was high in the sky. Midday. The thirst hit her suddenly. She crawled back to the car window, reaching in, finding her water bottle, opening it and drinking, trying to remember if there were more bottles in the car.
“Steve,” she said as she glanced at his lifeless body again, the sobs coming back. “Snap out of it, dammit. Find a cellphone.”
She looked on the ceiling for hers. Then she remembered it was in the pocket of her jeans, reaching for it, feeling the lump in her left pocket, forcing her bloody hands inside, reaching it. She brought it up to her face and pushed the button, the screen coming on. Battery was at eleven percent, and she had one bar. She hit the Sheriff’s station contact and put the phone to her ear.
“Wrightwood Sheriff’s office,” Kaye said.
“Kaye, it’s Colleen. We’re at the bottom of the cliff, off Highway 138, just past I-15.”
“Colleen, thank God,” Kaye said. “Is Steve okay? We’ve been trying to call you.”
“I’m the only one alive,” she said, breaking down. “Please help me.”
“Are you injured?” Kaye asked.
“Broken leg at least,” Colleen said. “Can’t tell. We were attacked on the road, and flew off the cliff after Justin was killed.”
“I’ll get somebody out there right away. How much battery do you have?”
“Not much.”
“We’ll send the chopper out,” Kaye said. “Do you have water?”
“I found half a bottle. There might be more in the Jeep, but I don’t know if I can reach it or not. I can barely move.”
“Okay, sit tight, and we’ll come get you,” Kaye said, ending the call.
{ 12 }
License to Kill
C harles looked at the clock. Almost eleven in New York. Six o’clock London time. His heart beat quicker as he watched the minutes tick by. Something’s wrong.
Jean came out of his room. “They haven’t called yet, huh?”
“No, not yet,” Charles said.
“They won’t. They’ve all gone into hiding.”
Charles shook his head. “Always jumping to the worst conclusion.” His phone rang. “There, what’d I tell you? Come on over and I’ll put it on speaker.” He answered and hit the speaker button.
“Charles?” Rayan’s voice asked.
“Yes. We’re ready. Who’s on?”
“They’re all gone,” Rayan said. “Every one of them.”
“Knew it,” Jean said, but he wasn’t smiling. His face was grim.
“Did you talk to any of them?” Charles asked, ignoring Jean’s comment.
“Justice Carleton,” Rayan said. “Said he helped the others leave, and he’s going into hiding now himself. It’s being portrayed as a medical leave.”
“That son of a bitch. Nothing is going to stop General Hogan’s team. Doesn’t that moron know?”
“He doesn’t, and he told me I’d be killed if I talked to you.”
“And yet you still called,” Jean said.
Rayan chuckled. “I agree with Charles. If we try to hide, chances are good that they’ll find us and kill us. We’d have a better chance together, but frankly, even together it looks bad to me. What can I say? I’d rather stay connected with you guys than be by myself.”
“What about Lance?” Charles asked.
“Nobody’s heard from him,” Rayan said. “He might be dead, you know. He was wounded.”
“His family is protecting him,” Charles said. “Get ahold of Victor Evans. I need to talk to him.”
“You’ll never convince him,” Jean said.
Charles turned towards him. “Maybe you ought to leave too, if you’re going to be negative all the time.”
“Let’s not lose any other members,” Rayan said. “Seriously. Jean, do you still have operatives
in the game?”
“I don’t know,” Jean said. “I was trying to raise them earlier. Nobody’s taking my calls.”
“So Charles has no Mercs and you can’t raise yours. Wonderful.”
“If we’re gonna survive, we need to stop this back-biting,” Charles said. “Jean, you piss me off something awful, but we still have a better chance together than we do apart. Do you agree?”
Jean was silent for a moment, thinking it through. He finally shrugged. “Yes, I agree, although even together, survival for us will be a long shot. Our best chance might be Maggie’s contacts at this point.”
“There’s a wild debate going on in Parliament about Maggie right now,” Rayan said.
“What are they debating?” Charles asked, his heart beating quicker.
“The House of Commons wants to storm every one of her estates and search for her. They might get their way. The British people obviously want that to happen. The House of Lords is still fighting it, of course, and there are strong rumors that the Royals have vetoed any such operation.”
“They don’t rule England anymore,” Charles said.
Jean chuckled. “Oh yes they do, in more ways than you guys know about. We killed off our royalty for a reason.”
Rayan laughed. “Hate to admit it, but I think Jean is right about that.”
“A lot of good it did them,” Charles said. “Look at France now. It’s in worse shape than the UK.”
“After the last twenty-four hours, I’d say that’s debatable,” Rayan said, “but it doesn’t matter at this point. We can’t count on US Government protection anymore. I don’t think we can count on UN protection either, and the EU is basically gone. The US Navy finished off the last of their ships in the northern Atlantic this morning.”
“That wasn’t on the news,” Jean said.
“Trust me, it happened,” Rayan said. “Even though I’m no longer involved in the Mertins Corporation, I still have contacts there. The leadership is in the same kind of trouble we are, only worse.”
“Why worse?” Jean asked.