The Circle of Eight (A James Acton Thriller, Book #7) (James Acton Thrillers)

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  He jumped back in the vehicle and Mickey gunned it toward the taxiway the Learjet was idling on. Mickey brought the vehicle to a stop behind the private jet where there was no way for anybody onboard to see them, this the ultimate blind spot. Wings and Jagger jumped out, rushing up to the rear landing gear and under the wings. Mickey moved the vehicle alongside the plane and stopped, climbing out and making certain he was seen by anybody who happened to be looking. Spock joined him, making a show of examining the decoy they had “retrieved” from the runway. Spock saw the pilot looking out the cockpit window and he gave the man a wave, then pointed at the engine, slicing his hand across his throat, indicating he wanted the engines cut. The pilot gave a thumbs up and immediately the engines began to power down. Spock then ducked under the fuselage as if to inspect the aircraft, instead joining the rest of his team as they readied their weapons.

  The door opened and the steps lowered to the taxiway, two men in crisp white shirts, captain’s bars on one, quickly descended the steps. Spock kept his eyes on them as all four of the Delta team pretended to inspect the landing gear, their weapons hidden from sight.

  “What’s going on?” asked the captain as he approached, his accent a thick German but perfectly understandable.

  “We think something fell off your landing gear assembly,” said Wings. The two men were only feet away when Spock nodded. Mickey and Jagger whipped around, their MP5K’s raised, the startled men left with nowhere to run as Spock and Wings rounded the pair, blocking their escape. Mickey quickly zip tied the two men, covering their mouths with duct tape. A pat-down revealed each had a Beretta.

  “Now, what would a pilot need with this?” asked Spock as he ejected the clip and any chambered round, tossing the weapons aside. The two uniformed men were placed against one of the massive tires then their ankles were bound.

  “Let’s go.”

  Spock stepped back into view along with Wings, their bright orange vests indicating their official airport titles, and quickly climbed the steps, pulling their weapons as they entered the cabin. Spock went left, clearing the cockpit as Wings took right, his weapon still behind his back. The cockpit empty, Spock turned and found two men near the rear of the plane, chatting. They stopped as they finally took notice of the two new arrivals.

  “What the hell do you want?” asked one of them, rising and reaching for what was certainly a weapon in a shoulder holster.

  Spock and Wings raised their weapons, taking aim at both men. The second man, not yet standing, dropped to his knees, hidden behind his seat. A MAC 10 appeared over the seatback, firing blindly as the other man dove.

  Wings took him out with two shots to the midriff, Spock dropping to a knee as the shots went over their heads. He put half a clip from his MP5K into the seatback, the MAC 10 silenced. They dashed forward as Mickey and Jagger rushed into the cabin. Spock checked his target and confirmed he had no pulse. Wings did the same.

  “Clear!” called Spock. He pointed at the rear. “Check the bathrooms and any other compartments.” Mickey and Jagger jumped forward.

  “Got a body!” called Mickey. Spock followed the voice to find Mickey standing outside a small bathroom. Spock poked his head in and found the body of a man sitting on the lavatory, his shoulder wound not the cause of death; the bullet through his head apparently more lethal.

  “Must be the one she wounded at the house,” he said.

  “Clean-up crew, indeed,” muttered Mickey.

  Spock stepped back into the cabin. “Sweep for intel, anything we can use.”

  The four began to search the cabin, several briefcases found in the overhead bins, wallets from the shooters, but not much else.

  Until Mickey cursed.

  “What?” asked Spock, joining him in the rear, a storage compartment opened in the galley.

  Mickey pointed.

  “We’ve got company.”

  Spock dropped to a knee and looked.

  At the pile of C4 bricks neatly joined together with detonators, and a countdown timer showing less than five minutes.

  “What the hell is this?” asked Wings as he joined them.

  “If we hadn’t delayed them, they’d have refueled and been well over the Atlantic by now. Bomb detonates, no evidence, completely clean operation.”

  “Jesus. Whoever is behind this is ruthless,” said Mickey.

  Spock rose. “Okay, everyone out. Grab the intel, we’ve got four minutes.”

  Suddenly the distinct rattle of gunfire from outside had them hitting the deck as the fuselage began to take fire, several windows hit, the bullets tearing into the cabin. Spock scrambled to the door, taking a quick look and saw a black Lincoln parked less than fifty feet from the plane, four men spraying weapons fire on them.

  “Four shooters, left side, behind a town car,” yelled Spock.

  “We’ve got three minutes until this thing lights up!” reminded Wings.

  “And they know it.” Spock knew all these guys had to do was keep them holed up in here for a few more minutes and the bomb would do their job for them.

  “Got an emergency exit over here,” said Mickey. Spock glanced and saw Mickey pulling on the mechanism. Spock turned back to the door and sprayed some fire blindly in the direction of their attackers.

  “Got it!” announced Mickey. Spock fired again then took a look as the window fell outward, leaving a gaping hole in the right side of the cabin. Mickey went first followed by Wings.

  “Let’s go!” yelled Jagger, firing out one of the shattered windows. Spock fell back toward the emergency exit, then slapped Jagger on the back. Jagger turned and dove out the hatch. Spock fired several more rounds then grabbed the briefcases piled in the middle of the plane and threw them out the emergency exit. He stuffed the wallets in his jacket then jumped through the hole, landing on the wing and sliding down to the ground. He felt a hand grab him, pulling him behind the landing gear.

  Spock flipped to his belly as Mickey and Wings made quick work of the four men still firing. He scrambled forward and found the two prisoners they had bound earlier dead, shot by their own men.

  The gunfire stopped.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!” he yelled as he jumped to his feet, grabbing one of the briefcases. The others each grabbed a case and sprinted away from the plane. Spock was out front slightly and glanced over each shoulder to make sure no one was being left behind when the plane suddenly erupted from within, the bomb tearing at the air, the sound horrifying, the plane suddenly bulging, bursting its seams as the fuselage tore apart.

  “Keep going!” he yelled, the worst yet to come. The sound of the fuel igniting and erupting in a massive blast sent Spock diving for the ground and covering his head. The others dropped around him as the shockwave rolled over them, the heat licking at them as if it had a taste for flesh, then within moments it was over, the blast collapsing back in on itself.

  Spock pushed himself to his feet to see the passenger cabin torn open as if clawed apart by an angry beast hell-bent on escaping. The entire plane was now aflame, the dark black smoke billowing into the evening sky as the airfield’s disaster response team raced toward the smoldering mess. The Lincoln with the four new arrivals was no more, merely a twisted seething mass of metal, its occupants charred to the point no useful intel would be found on their bodies.

  “Everybody okay?”

  Three acknowledgements and he began to walk toward where their plane was waiting.

  “I’ve got a hankering for chocolate. Switzerland anybody?”

  “Forget chocolate. I want one of them fancy knives that MacGyver uses,” said Mickey. “With that, some twine and a box of toothpicks we could get out of pretty much anything.”

  Spock smiled as the theme song for one of The Unit’s favorite shows played through his head. They hadn’t watched it in at least a year.

  “Whose got the DVDs?” he asked.

  “I think Stucco had them,” said Mickey, his voice suddenly subdued.

  Spock nodd
ed.

  “Then in his honor, I say when we’ve put these bastards six feet under, we buy the collection again and start watching from Season One, Episode One.”

  “Sounds like a damned good idea to me,” replied Jagger.

  The group became silent, Spock was sure with the same thoughts of Stucco flashing through their minds. He was a good man, a good soldier, and a good husband and father. He had only been with them a few years, but had become one of Spock’s best friends.

  A friend who would now be avenged.

  Köln, Germany

  1472 AD

  Dietrich lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling above, his mind sharp, fatigue a faint memory that had yet to arrive, his mind consumed with thoughts of Heike and how her family must be so worried. He ached to go tell them what had happened, that their baby would never be home again, that her life had been snuffed out by a madman whom he was essentially bound to in servitude until death.

  But whose death?

  The thought had him bolt upright in his bed, the slats underneath protesting loudly, filling the room with their angry creaking. He froze, hoping he hadn’t woken the household, then carefully swung his legs out of the bed and stood, realizing the noise couldn’t have been as bad as he feared since even his breathing seemed loud.

  He tried to calm himself, to resolve himself to the decision he had just made. He looked out the window, the sky clear now, the rain’s only evidence the glistening stone below. He stared up the road to the top of the hill and could see various houses still well lit, and he knew it was most likely Heike’s family and the neighbors beginning a search.

  A search that would lead to nothing, for there was nothing to find unless her body had snagged on a tree root or something. If it hadn’t, it would be far from here by now, not to be fished from the river until a passing boat spotted her in the daylight, if at all.

  He dressed himself properly, ran his fingers through his hair to try and straighten it, then flipped up the hood of his robe. He knew there were others about the premises now that the Catalyst was here, but that shouldn’t matter. This was his house, not theirs. How would they know what is normal routine and what isn’t?

  He opened his door carefully, thankful the old hinges didn’t squeak. He had rubbed goose fat on them just this week to keep them quiet so he didn’t wake the master when he woke to prepare the master’s breakfast. He knew as soon as he officially became the apprentice tomorrow, or rather today, he wouldn’t need to perform any of the menial tasks again—his entire life would be devoted to learning, rather than proving humbleness in the eyes of his master.

  He walked with purpose down the hall toward his master’s chambers lest anyone be watching and a furtive gait arouse suspicion. He reached the end of the hall and turned right. He saw something in the shadows and he nodded at it, not even knowing if it was a person or a trick of the shadows, but he continued and moments later was at his master’s door.

  What if he’s awake?

  The thought hadn’t occurred to him. He would have to fight him, and the master was a powerful man. Dietrich had little doubt he’d be made quick work of, his frame comparatively tiny.

  The black powder!

  He hadn’t yet replaced it and knew his master would want to admire the Catalyst when he awoke, so retrieval of the basement key was the perfect excuse.

  He pressed down on the handle, and the door opened silently. He stepped inside, the chambers lit gently with several candles, enough for his sensitive eyes to see clearly. His master’s steady yet gentle snoring could be heard from the bed, the curtains drawn around it as he had left him.

  The dagger his master regularly carried would be on the dresser at the opposite end of the room. He slowly crept toward it, cautious of one area of the floorboards that had a tendency to creak, and arrived without incident, the loudest noise the pounding in his ears.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the bed. There was no movement to be seen through the thick curtains, however the steady breathing continued. He reached for the gold plated dagger, grasped it in his now shaking hand, then turned toward the bed.

  He stepped forward slowly, the snores getting louder the closer he got.

  They stopped and he froze, as did his heart.

  Had he made a noise?

  Had the master sensed his presence? After all the man seemed to be able to read minds.

  There was a snort, then a shift behind the curtains, and the snoring resumed.

  Dietrich almost let out a sigh of relief, but stifled it. He stood frozen for several more minutes, his muscles aching as he held the slightly crouched position, terrified to move.

  He willed himself forward.

  The dagger was at the ready in his right hand, the blade turned downward so he could plunge it into the man’s chest. He reached forward with his hand, grasping the curtain, then slowly pulled it aside, the wood hooks sliding silently along the polished mahogany rail above.

  He let go, the man’s back revealed to him.

  He hadn’t counted on this. He would either need to roll him over, exposing his chest, or thrust from behind, through the back. Confusion began to consume him.

  Then he paused.

  The key for the basement sat where it always sat when not around his master’s neck, on the nightstand to his right. But the key used to open the cabinet where the Catalyst lay hidden had slipped out of his robe pocket and lay on the bed not an arm’s length from where Dietrich stood, poised for his kill.

  And he smiled as a new plan formed.

  Martin Lacroix Residence, Republic of San Marino

  “What are we looking at?”

  Number One’s voice rumbled through the room, Dr. Martin Lacroix using the speakers this time instead of headphones. The room was soundproofed from eavesdroppers, and shielded from electronic surveillance. He was alone save his apprentice, both robed for the formality of the meeting with The Circle who were dialed in from around the world.

  “Footage from our cleanup efforts,” replied Lacroix. “The woman at the hotel has been eliminated. The Public Prosecutor has dropped the case without even filing the charges. This means there will be no negative publicity.”

  “Assuming the others remain silent,” interjected one of The Circle.

  “I have had one of the Delta Force members eliminated with his family. He was the one that assaulted me.”

  Lacroix’s blood boiled at the humiliating memory. It was one thing to be beaten, an entirely different thing when you were naked and too drunk to defend yourself.

  Then to be put in a cell at the police station in nothing but a robe, mixed with hard core criminals and junkies—he shivered at the memory. His robe hadn’t remained on his person long before it was “borrowed” by someone far bigger than him. He had sat curled in the corner, covering his genitalia until his lawyer had finally arrived.

  Which was why Inspector Laviolette had to pay.

  “Was that wise?” asked a voice.

  “He was a witness. One of the ones in the room who could have seen our material.”

  “Yes, but now you’ve pissed off the most highly trained military unit in the world.”

  Lacroix nodded.

  “Yes, but they have no way of finding us.”

  “They can find you.”

  “I’m far too public for them to do anything to. Besides, with today’s events we’ve proven we aren’t to be trifled with. One family is dead, another was nearly successfully kidnapped—”

  “By ‘nearly’ you mean the mission was a failure and resulted in us having to clean up the mess so none of our operatives could be captured. A complete fiasco!”

  “Piss off!” exploded Lacroix, the voice of Number Three, a constant thorn in his side, grating on his nerves. “If you don’t have anything useful to contribute to this conversation, then shut it!”

  “Enough!” roared the voice of Number One. Silence followed. He finally spoke after there was no noise coming from the speakers. “I was parti
cularly intrigued by what you did to the detective’s family.”

  Lacroix smiled.

  “My idea. I wanted a message sent that this should never be pursued, lest it happen to someone else’s family. The fact the inspector reacted the way he did—well, I was pleasantly surprised at that.”

  “Can we consider this matter closed, then?”

  Lacroix wished they could, prayed he could hide the latest information that had just arrived, but he knew the same resources used by him to garner the intel could be used by them.

  And knowing them, somebody was probably back checking everything he did.

  “No,” he finally said. “My sources inform me that at least four Delta Force members are on their way to Geneva. The same four that assaulted our plane in New York.”

  “And the rest?”

  “We’re not certain, but we’re monitoring all inbound Geneva traffic. We think as many as four more may be on their way. We should know more shortly. We suspect they’ll rendezvous with the first group that should be landing in the next couple of hours.”

  “And what do you intend to do about it?”

  “Make sure they never see the light of day again.”

  Köln, Germany

  1472 AD

  Dietrich had a new plan. A bolder plan. One that would not only give him his revenge, but torture and destroy the man who had killed his beloved Heike. And it didn’t involve anyone’s death except perhaps his own, which he could live with should he succeed.

  He slowly reached forward, his heart slamming against his chest, his pulse roaring in his ears as he tried to make no sound, not even the creak of his own bones. His fingers grasped the small chain the key was on and he pulled. It didn’t move.

  He pulled slightly harder, and he felt a tug on the master’s robe, it obviously clasped to something inside the pocket.