The Bourne Evolution

by Brian Freeman

  They’d said little on the road. After Benoit’s death, Abbey had stared at the blood and brains on the apartment floor with a kind of numb shock, but after he dragged her away, she’d insisted on staying with him as the hunt for Medusa led to Nevada. For an entire day since then, they’d traded off driving, but they hadn’t really talked, even though there were definitely things to talk about.

  They both felt something happening between them.

  They were both pretending it wasn’t real.

  “I know you’re questioning everything you knew about Nova,” Abbey murmured in the darkness, just loud enough for him to hear.

  He didn’t answer, and she waited a long time before saying anything more.

  “What Benoit told you doesn’t change anything, does it? She still loved you. You loved her.”

  “I did love her,” Jason replied finally. “I suppose on some level, I still do. Beyond that, I’m not sure what’s true anymore. Nova was a good operative. She was more than capable of fooling me into thinking her feelings were real. Even if she did love me on some level, she didn’t trust me. As Benoit said, Treadstone thought I’d turned.”

  “He also said Nova didn’t believe that.”

  “Maybe, but if she was sure I wasn’t part of Medusa, she would have told me what she was doing. I could have helped her. I could have watched her back. Instead, she walked into a trap, and there was nothing I could do to protect her.”

  “It sounds like she was protecting you,” Abbey said.

  “No, she was keeping secrets from me.”

  He listened to her breathing. Abbey was invisible just a few feet away.

  “Jason, what happened to your memory?” she went on carefully, as if tiptoeing into a minefield. “You talk about having no past. You say you don’t remember who you are. What does that mean?”

  He tried to decide what to say to her. He’d known that she would go back to the subject of his past sooner or later. She was a reporter; she asked questions for a living. She needed to know the truth about the people she was with, in order to profile them and study them, like insects in an experiment. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe not every human motive hid something dark.

  He wanted to tell her the truth. He hadn’t felt that desire with anyone in a long time.

  “I was shot in the head during a mission,” he explained. “The injury caused amnesia. I lost everything. I had no identity, no way to explain who I was, the skills I had.”

  “Did your memory come back?” she asked.

  “Only bits and pieces of it. Disconnected images. Eventually, I found out who I was, and people told me the details of my past, but that’s not the same as remembering it. I know about my past the way you know about reading something in a history book. You can memorize the facts. You can look at the pictures. But it may as well have happened to someone else. The man in those photos is a stranger. I spent a long time trying to force myself to remember, but it doesn’t work that way. And what’s the point? The person I was no longer exists. I’m Jason Bourne. I’m the man that Treadstone created. That’s who I am. That other identity, the one I started my life with, isn’t real to me anymore.”

  Abbey was silent.

  He heard the rustle of blankets on the other bed. The floor in the old motel creaked as she stood up, but she was as dark as a ghost. Telltale sounds gave her away. The noise of clothes being removed, the rattle of a zipper. The springs of the bed he was in squealed as she joined him there. She molded herself against him, and by instinct, he put his arm around her. Her face was on his shoulder, her breath on his neck. He moved his hand down her body and felt nothing but bare skin. She was naked.

  “You also said you don’t really know who I am,” Abbey whispered.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Was that true, or was that a lie? Because I know you’re like Nova. You’re more than capable of fooling me into thinking that your feelings are real.”

  “It’s true,” Jason told her. “I want to know who you are.”

  Abbey took a slow, deep breath.

  “Well. Let’s see. You said I seem to be estranged from my father. You’re right. I love him, but I don’t respect him. I don’t even particularly like him. Before my mother got sick, he was cheating on her. She knew about it. I know that him betraying her didn’t give her cancer, but on some level, I can’t help but think it took the fight out of her. He was supposed to be the love of her life, and his love turned out to be hollow. I can’t forgive him for that.”

  “What about Michel?” Jason asked. “Why did it not work out with him? Did he remind you of your father too much?”

  She gave a quiet laugh. “You’re good. Yes, that was probably part of it. Life with Michel looked an awful lot like the life my parents had, and look how that turned out. That’s probably unfair, but it’s how I felt. Besides, I wanted something else out of life.”

  “What?”

  “If I figure it out, I’ll let you know,” Abbey replied.

  “You obviously don’t care about getting a big job,” Jason went on. “You had a shot at top magazines, and you turned them down. And yet you don’t strike me as someone who’s afraid of risks.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You won’t quit your job, but you hate standing still. You stay in Quebec, but you don’t do anything at home except sleep.”

  “Maybe I like being an enigma.”

  “Or maybe you’re like a skydiver,” Jason said.

  “How so?”

  “You love the idea of jumping. You can’t wait to feel that freedom as you fall. You’re excited by the thrill of cheating death. You can’t believe there’s anything more boring than a life spent on the ground, and you’re sure that once you take that first step, it’s going to be the most incredible experience ever.”

  “But?” she asked.

  “But that first step is scary.”

  Abbey turned his head toward her and found his mouth in the darkness. As they kissed, her hands worked on his clothes, undressing him quickly and urgently. He helped her, shrugging off his shirt, kicking off his pants. She found the skin of his chest, and her fingertips traced over old wounds and scars like an explorer. Her lips were on his face, his shoulders, his neck. When he was naked, like her, she took his hand and pulled him on top of her, and her body rose up to meet him and guide him inside her.

  “First steps are always scary,” she whispered.

  * * *

  —

  NASH Rollins pulled open the rear door of the stretch limousine parked in front of the New York apartment building where they’d found Benoit’s body. He looked both ways up and down the street, then climbed into the back and shut the door behind him. He shifted painfully in the seat and folded up his walking cane. Through the smoked windows, he saw the flashing lights of a dozen police cars.

  “Good evening, Nash,” Miles Priest said.

  “Hello, Miles.”

  The CEO’s hangdog face looked longer and sadder than usual. “You have my sympathy about Benoit. He was a good man.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “Bourne shot him. I should have seen it coming. He knew we’d see the video feed from the safe house, knew we’d send someone after him. He staked out an apartment across the street and waited for Benoit. He took him out through the window. This is war. Bourne’s declared war against us. Which means Medusa has, too.”

  Rollins heard himself spitting out the words. He’d actually questioned his judgment about Bourne’s innocence, but Cain had now erased those doubts for good. Rollins’s anger was like a fire, but he had to purge his emotions. He wanted nothing in his brain now but cold calculations.

  “Just to be clear, are we quite sure it was Bourne?” Priest asked.

  “He left a fingerprint on the sniper rifle.”


  “That seems rather careless of him.”

  “It wasn’t careless,” Rollins snapped. “It was deliberate. He was sending me and Shaw a message. He wants us to know that he was the one who killed Benoit. Just like he did with Congresswoman Ortiz.”

  “He fooled all of us, Nash. Scott convinced me that Bourne was the right man for the job. We made a mistake.”

  Rollins shook his head. “The director and I both warned Scott to find someone else. I told him that Bourne wasn’t the same man anymore. But he let his history with him get in the way of his judgment.”

  “Do you have any idea where Bourne is headed next?” Priest asked.

  “No. We’re tapped into police databases, but he knows we’ll be looking for him. That’s why I called you, Miles. I’d like your people looking, too. Put some of those damn computers and databases to work to help me.”

  “I imagine Bourne is too smart to be found that way,” Priest replied.

  “Maybe so, but he’s not alone. We think he’s still with the Canadian woman. Abbey Laurent.”

  Priest’s brow furrowed. “That’s interesting. Is she a hostage?”

  “It doesn’t look that way. She appears to be with him voluntarily. She’s the softer target, so if we find her, we find him.”

  “I’ll do what I can to help,” Priest replied.

  “Good. If you locate them, call me. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  Priest fixed the knot in his tie and folded his arms across his chest. “You haven’t been too successful with that up until now, Nash.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m simply reminding you that your earlier attempts have failed. You have to ask yourself why. We’re both thinking the same thing—that Medusa has a spy inside Treadstone.”

  “Or you do, Miles.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning no one inside Treadstone knew about the Nova operation in Las Vegas other than me and Benoit. But you knew, Miles. I told you about my plan when I asked for technology help on the surveillance. Someone betrayed her, and it wasn’t me.”

  Priest frowned, as if this were a possibility he hadn’t considered. “Regardless, it doesn’t change where we are now. Cain has to be removed. So make sure your team is reliable.”

  “I will. Hell, I’ll kill him myself if I have to.”

  “You? You’re an old man, Nash. And I say that as an even older man myself. The last time you went up against Cain, he took pity on you. He shot you, but he left you alive. I doubt he’ll be so charitable next time.”

  Rollins felt his anger surging again, but only because Miles was right. “Trust me, I’ll take down Medusa. And Bourne, too.”

  “I hope that’s true.”

  “If you find anything about where they are, let me know.”

  “I will.”

  Rollins reached for the door handle of the limousine, but then he turned back. “A word of warning, Miles.”

  “About what?”

  “I read about the Carillon deal with Prescix collapsing. I heard about Kevin Drake’s murder. Medusa is on the move. You better be ready for them to come after you. You’re used to being the king, but your Scottish ancestors could teach you a lesson.”

  A little smile played across Priest’s face. “What would that be?”

  “Kings have a way of getting their heads chopped off.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  A SCORCHING November sun beat down on Las Vegas, as if summer had never left. Jason walked hand in hand with Nova through the thousands of people crowded around the Phaetons, Bel Airs, Hornets, and Thunderbolts at the antique car show. What was normally a vacant lot steps away from the I-515 was a boisterous festival that day. The air was sweet with the smell of cotton candy. Twangy country music played from the stage, and the partiers drank yard-long margaritas. Nova wore a red bikini top and black short shorts, exposing most of her deep brown skin and taut physique. Her lush black hair hung loose around her shoulders, and she hid her dark eyes behind oversized sunglasses. She walked in high heels, but he was still a foot taller than she was. Her mouth broke into a big smile as she watched children running around them.

  “I think I want kids,” she said.

  Jason was surprised. She’d never expressed an interest in children before, but Nova was a woman of many dimensions. A ruthless killer, a voracious lover, but also a woman who could cry at a Schumann concerto and play chess with old men in the park. One of the things he loved about her was that she was impossible to predict.

  “Someday,” she added, reading the look on his face. “Not today, Jason.”

  “That’s a relief,” he said, grinning.

  “I’m serious, though. Think about it.”

  “I will.”

  She dragged him toward a gleaming 1931 Cadillac roadster and posed for a picture beside the car’s owner. Her body was voluptuous, attracting stares from the men nearby. The sixty-something car owner in a plaid cap let his hand wander while Jason took the picture, and Nova just laughed. She looked happy. No worries, no fears. Jason felt happy, too, but happiness also dulled his reactions. Happiness meant letting his guard down. That was how he made mistakes.

  As he took Nova’s picture in front of the Cadillac, everything changed, and he missed it entirely. He didn’t even notice what had happened until he looked at the photograph later that night. One instant, she was smiling at him. The next instant, as he snapped the photo, her smile had vanished. She was staring at something over his shoulder, her lips in a frown. Her whole body was tense.

  By the time he put away his phone, she’d pasted a smile back on her face.

  “Those margaritas look amazing,” Nova said, which was unusual, because she rarely drank. “Would you be a love and get me one?”

  “Come with me.”

  “Oh, you know I can’t wait in lines. I get impatient and say nasty things about people. Make it a tall one, and float some Patrón on top.”

  “Okay.”

  As he turned away, Nova grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. Her arms snaked around his waist. Her skin glowed from the heat. “I love you, Jason Bourne,” she whispered.

  Those were the last words he heard her say.

  He threaded his way to the tent on the far side of the festival where they sold margaritas frozen and on the rocks. Most of the people in line were loud and not on their first drink. When he looked back over the crowd, he couldn’t see Nova near the Cadillac anymore. She’d disappeared, lost among thousands of others.

  He should have been worried, but he wasn’t. He was happy.

  The band onstage played a cover of a Brad Paisley song. A skinny twenty-something black man in a cowboy hat talked with a wizened old man in overalls about his 1950 Studebaker Land Cruiser. Three kids no more than ten dodged the people in line as they squealed and played tag. Two teenage girls danced to the music. He smelled smoke; someone was sneaking a cigarette. Across the street, sunlight glimmered on the windows in the tower of the Lucky Nickel hotel.

  Bourne heard the first shot as soon as it happened. Nobody else did.

  The report of the rifle wasn’t even as loud as a firecracker, easy to miss, but he knew what it was. His head snapped around as he tried to pinpoint the source of the gunfire. The echoes played with the sound, as if it were coming from everywhere. Definitely a long gun. Definitely high up.

  It had to be the hotel. He surveyed the windows, looking for the weapon.

  A few seconds later, the shooter fired again.

  The black man in the cowboy hat collapsed. It happened too fast for anyone to realize he’d been shot in the head. He simply fell where he stood, his hat covering his face. Another muffled pop rolled over the festival, barely loud enough to hear.

  “Gun!” Bourne shouted. “Shooter! Take cover!”

  Hesitation gripped the people arou
nd him. Not fear, just a frozen moment of uncertainty. No one understood what was happening; no one believed it was real. Then a woman grabbed her chest, and when everyone saw the spray of blood, the screaming began. Parents grabbed children. People ran, and shoved, and fell, trampled in a stampede. The fence around the lot penned them in, and there was nowhere to hide. More bullets rained down, faster now, one after another, randomly spraying the crowd, cutting down human beings like paper targets in an arcade. Metal pinged as rounds thudded into Fords and LaSalles.

  Bourne had only one thought.

  Nova.

  He raced through a scene of wild panic. Bullets missed him by inches, and more bodies fell. He searched the faces, trying to find her. Look for the calm one; she wouldn’t run. She’d be helping others, dragging children behind cars, ripping off shirts to tend to the wounded.

  Where was she?

  Already, sirens wailed on the streets as police scrambled for the scene. Only a couple of minutes had passed since the carnage began, but every few seconds brought more death, more blood. He stopped and stared at the Lucky Nickel tower. He could see where the shooter was now, could see the reflection near the top floor and the fire of the barrel. He waved his arms, trying to draw the attention of whoever was behind the riflescope. Shoot at me, take me, leave the others.

  Leave Nova.

  But the gunfire went elsewhere. He shouted Nova’s name, barely audible above the tumult of voices. He found the Cadillac roadster where she’d been standing minutes earlier, but she was gone. Dozens of people lay flat on the hot pavement behind the car, covering their heads, covering their children, hiding from the assault.

  The car owner in the plaid cap lay beside his prize car. He was dead, a bullet in his throat.

  “Nova!” Jason screamed, turning in every direction.

  Then, with the crowd parting like a curtain, he saw her. His world turned black. Someone carried her, her body slung over a man’s shoulder, her hair swishing back and forth as he took her away. He could only see half her face, but what he saw was streaked in blood. Her lifeless arms hung down. Her sunglasses had fallen off; her eyes were closed.