The Bourne Evolution

by Brian Freeman

  “Because of Nova,” Abbey concluded.

  “Yes. Medusa killed her. Miss Shirley killed her. I can’t let that stand.”

  Abbey came up to him in the McCarran parking lot. He was aware of how achingly pretty she was. Her big eyes were wide and serious. Her bangs hung in messy spikes across her eyes. Having her close to him reminded him of how it felt to have her body in his arms. “You do have a choice, you know. Nova wouldn’t want you to die for her. If she really loved you, she’d want you to be free. You have money. Contacts. Skills. Even if you’re on the run, you could disappear. I’m sure you know how to do that. Put an end to this, live on a beach somewhere. Anywhere in the world.”

  “Abbey—”

  Before he could say anything more, she put her hands on his face and whispered to him. “If you asked me, I’d go with you. You get that, right? I’d leave everything behind.”

  “That’s why I can’t ask.” Jason glanced at the corporate jet, which was in a remote corner of the airport grounds. The pilot flashed him a thumbs-up. “I have to go.”

  “If that’s what you need to do, then go.”

  Abbey kissed him. He could feel the passion as she held him and the longing as her mouth moved against his. It was a kiss that said she wanted him to stay, a kiss that almost changed his mind. When they broke apart, she took a last long look at him, and then she turned and walked away without another word. She didn’t look back. He watched her until she got to the Land Rover, and when she peeled away from the parking lot with the tires screeching, he watched the vehicle until it was lost in the Las Vegas traffic.

  “Goodbye, Abbey Laurent,” Jason said.

  Bourne picked up his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder. He put on sunglasses and marched through the airport gate onto the tarmac. The jet was waiting for him.

  It was time to fight.

  * * *

  —

  ABBEY filled up the Land Rover at a gas station off Paradise Road before heading to the freeway. Her mind was full of Jason, and she was equal parts angry and lonely. She didn’t really think about what she was doing. She took cash from her wallet and went inside to prepay, then waited impatiently as the pump dribbled gas into the tank. As it did, she wandered into the middle of the parking lot and watched as a 737 glided over her head to land on the runway at McCarran. She could have waited to see Jason’s jet leave, but she didn’t want to see the plane that was taking him away from her.

  When the tank was full, Abbey went to collect her change and then walked back to the Land Rover. She didn’t give a thought to the gas station security cameras, which had a clear view of her face and of the license plate on the SUV.

  Traffic crawled on Tropicana heading west to the I-15. Hot air blew through her open window. Eventually, she reached the freeway and headed north past the Strip hotels, reversing the route that she and Jason had taken two nights ago from Mesquite. Road construction slowed her down, and she found a radio station playing fast songs to distract her.

  As she passed each exit, another traffic camera registered her vehicle.

  The freeway took her out of the valley into the desert hills, where she put the Land Rover on cruise control. Driving back to the cold of Canada would take her several days, but she was in no hurry. She’d continue on I-15 into Utah, head across the mountains toward Denver, and then traverse the flat midwestern lands through Lincoln, Des Moines, and into Chicago. She’d cross the border in Michigan north of Detroit and be back home for the final leg through Ontario into Quebec.

  She didn’t pay much attention to her surroundings as she drove. Her mind was elsewhere. Then, half an hour outside Las Vegas, she noticed a black helicopter hovering above the scrubland near the freeway. It was surprisingly low to the ground, with no markings to identify it. After she passed it, she kept an eye on the machine in her mirror, until it disappeared from view as she crested a shallow hill. There was nothing else around her in this section of the road. Utility poles dotted the plains, and rust-colored stone mountains bordered the highway on both sides. She was miles from the nearest town.

  Not long after, she noticed something odd. Traffic had completely disappeared from the southbound lanes of the freeway. There wasn’t another vehicle to be seen anywhere. When she looked in her mirror, she realized the same was true in her own lane. All the trucks and cars that had been playing tag with her since she left the valley had vanished. She was literally alone in the desert.

  Abbey tapped the brakes, feeling a strange sense of foreboding. As she slowed down, a deafening roar erupted outside the Land Rover, so loud and sudden that she screamed. The black helicopter reappeared and shot over the SUV, barely twenty feet above her roof, creating a downdraft that forced her to cling hard to the wheel to avoid driving off the highway. Ahead of her, two SUVs sped toward her, going the wrong way in the northbound lanes, blocking her passage. She slowed as the SUVs wheeled to a stop, angled across both lanes of the freeway directly ahead of her.

  When she glanced in her mirror, she saw two more SUVs approaching from behind and blocking the road from the other direction.

  All Abbey could do was stop.

  Men with assault rifles poured from the four vehicles, and she screamed again. They were dressed in helmets and paramilitary gear, and they had their guns pointed directly at her. Spreading out, and keeping a safe distance, they surrounded the Land Rover. Meanwhile, the unmarked helicopter drifted to the ground barely fifty yards away, kicking up a fierce cloud of dust in the dry land just beyond the freeway guardrail. The engine cut off, and the whirling rotors slowed.

  A voice on loudspeaker boomed from the helicopter.

  “Abbey Laurent! Open the door, and keep both hands visible as you exit the vehicle!”

  Terrified, Abbey undid her safety belt, pushed open the driver’s door of the Land Rover, and stretched out her arms into the warm air as she got out of the SUV. She kept her arms up, her fingers spread wide, as she inched away from the truck.

  “Get on your knees! Hands on top of your head!”

  Abbey sank to the ground on the hot blacktop and laced her fingers together on her head. “I don’t have any weapons!” she shouted. “I’m alone, and I’m unarmed! He’s not with me!”

  The men approached her slowly, squeezing the circle tighter. Half of them closed on the Land Rover, checking the undercarriage and then pointing their guns in the windows. The other men came close enough to Abbey to brush the barrels of their rifles against her body. One, a large Hispanic man with charcoal smeared under his eyes, shouldered his weapon, then shoved her facedown onto the highway lane. He gave her an invasive pat-down while she lay on her stomach, and then he flipped her over and repeated the process on her front, digging his fingers into her breasts and between her legs.

  “Having fun?” Abbey hissed.

  The man said nothing.

  “I told you, I’m unarmed,” she went on. “I know you’re looking for him. He’s not here.”

  She lay on her back, her skin burning where her flesh touched the hot pavement. As she watched, the men searched the Land Rover, and when they’d cleared it, one of them relayed a message to the helicopter. A voice responded on radio, but Abbey couldn’t make out the words. A moment later, the Hispanic man yanked her off the ground and secured her wrists behind her in cuffs.

  “Go,” he ordered, pushing her forward with a hard shove. Abbey stumbled, then righted herself and walked across the freeway lanes, with the rifles of the guards following her. They led her to the steel railing, and she climbed awkwardly over it, accompanied by half a dozen men. Footing was treacherous on the rocky ground, and when she slowed, she felt the jab of a gun in the small of her back.

  They pushed her toward the helicopter.

  As she got closer, the passenger door of the machine opened, and a man got out into the desert.

  It was Nash Rollins.

 
The Treadstone agent leaned on his cane and clutched a fedora in his other hand. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. She’d first met him in Quebec City only a few days ago, but somehow he looked older now. The men with guns pushed Abbey forward until she was standing in front of Rollins, and then he dismissed them with a flick of his fingers. The military men retreated, and the two of them were alone by the helicopter.

  “Ms. Laurent,” Rollins said. “I’m pleased to see you again. Let’s make this quick. Where is Jason Bourne?”

  PART FOUR

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  BOURNE walked along one of the dozen crowded piers that stretched into the heart of Nassau Harbor. Hundreds of boats bobbed in the pale green water, ranging from beat-up fishing charters to sleek two-hundred-foot yachts. Two soaring highway bridges arched over the inlet’s narrow channel, and the pink towers of the Atlantis resort loomed over the white-sand beach of Paradise Island. From where he was, he could see several cruise ship behemoths docked at Prince George Wharf.

  The warm late-afternoon sun beat down on his face. He wore a dirty green tank top and loose-fitting cargo shorts, along with a fraying baseball cap, sneakers, and no socks. He hadn’t shaved. He’d swapped his leather duffel for an old canvas bag with a shoulder strap. With that look, he blended in as just another Nassau beach bum, one of those urban escapees who’d traded in the nine-to-five world for a downscale island life.

  Halfway down the pier, he found what he was looking for, a thirty-foot catamaran with smoked black windows on its bridge and the name Irish Whiskey painted along its gleaming-white hull. The owner kept it in pristine shape. The flat boat deck was empty, but someone had been stretched out in the sun recently, leaving behind a half-full pink drink in a hurricane glass and a rippled Tom Clancy paperback that had obviously spent time in the water.

  Bourne stepped from the pier onto the boat, feeling it rock under his feet. He didn’t announce himself, because if he was in the right place, the owner already knew he was here. He’d talked to half a dozen locals as he tracked down the man on the catamaran, and he was sure that the man’s spies had warned him that a stranger was coming his way.

  Except Bourne wasn’t a stranger.

  He dropped his bag on the deck and made his way to the glass door leading to the boat’s interior. He opened it, stepped inside, and immediately felt the barrel of a gun pushed against the back of his head.

  “Cain,” the boat’s owner said cheerfully.

  “Hello, Teeling.”

  “I’d say you were getting sloppy, because you made it so easy for me to spot you. But you’re never sloppy, are you? That means you wanted me to know you were coming. Presumably, that means you want me to think you’re not a threat.”

  “You’re right. I just want to talk. I’m not a threat.”

  “Well, that’s where you’re wrong, because the Jason Bourne I know is always a threat.”

  “My gun’s in my bag outside,” Bourne told him. “Otherwise, I’m unarmed.”

  “How’d you find me?”

  “You’re not as anonymous as you think you are, Teeling. Director Shaw made sure we kept an eye on you after you left. I heard you hopscotched around South America for a couple of years, then landed here. Retirement suits you.”

  The man grunted. “Seriously? And all this time, I figured if Treadstone ever found me, they’d kill me. Or if they didn’t, then the commies would.”

  Teeling pulled the gun from Bourne’s head and gestured toward a white leather sofa that stretched below the boat’s slanted windows. The floors and cabinets in the interior were all varnished oak. Bourne sat down, and Teeling went over to the boat’s mirrored wet bar and grabbed a bottle of his namesake whiskey. He held up a glass. “You want a shot?”

  “No, thanks.”

  The agent poured one for himself, then sat down at a safe distance. He was well into his seventies, but Bourne wasn’t about to underestimate the threat posed by any Treadstone man, and Teeling had been one of the best. They’d only overlapped by a year before Teeling left the agency, but the stories of the man’s operations in Russia in the post-Gorbachev era were legendary.

  Teeling was around five feet ten, and he’d maintained a strong build. He wore no shirt, exposing a deep tan interrupted by multiple scars. His turquoise swimsuit came down to his bony knees. He had long gray hair that hung to his shoulders, but his bushy mustache and eyebrows were still mostly black. He had a wrinkled face, with dark eyes that were sharp and bright. He kept his gun loosely in his fingers, pointed at the floor.

  “You’re a hot commodity these days, Cain,” Teeling told him.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been reading about you in the news.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read. I didn’t shoot the congresswoman.”

  “Well, I assumed the stories were bullshit, but I was wondering what was up. The fact that you’re here makes me think you’d rather I didn’t pick up the phone and call any of our old colleagues.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Okay. So what do you want from me? No offense, Bourne, but I’m out, and I like being out. I’ve got money in the bank, a few good spots on the water for yellowtail and snapper, and a couple of local girls who think gray hair is sexy. I’d rather not mess any of that up.”

  The man made it sound as if he’d left the intelligence world completely behind, but Bourne doubted that was true. Out was never really out at Treadstone. You could leave the life, but it never left you. If only for his personal protection, Teeling was bound to keep a close eye on who was coming and going in Nassau. Bourne was counting on that.

  “A private jet probably arrived at Pindling this morning from Nevada,” he said. “The jet’s owner is Gabriel Fox, CEO of the Prescix Corporation. Did you happen to hear anything about that?”

  Teeling grinned. “Any chance Mr. Fox was accompanied by a woman who looks like a major-league ballbuster?”

  “A very good chance.”

  “Well, in fact, word of such an arrival did cross my phone.”

  “Where did they go?” Bourne asked.

  “They headed for the billionaires’ marina on the south side of the island. Just them, nine serious dudes, and some crates of thousand-dollar champagne.”

  “It’s not bubbly inside those crates. It’s guns.”

  Teeling shrugged. “Well, this is the Caribbean, Bourne. The curtains don’t usually match the carpet.”

  “Are they still in the marina?”

  “No, they boarded one of the mega-yachts moored over there and headed out about two hours ago.”

  “Going where?”

  “That I don’t know. There’s a lot of water around here and a whole lot of private islands where boats can dock without people keeping an eye on you. You could charter a plane and hope you get lucky, but you don’t have much daylight left. So unless you’ve got a satellite to do a flyover, you’re not going to find them.”

  “I don’t think they’re on their own,” Bourne said. “They’re going to a meeting with other leaders in the tech world. So I suspect there have been other departures from the same marina in the last day or so. Helicopters, too. That sound familiar?”

  “It does. Happens a few times a year, actually. This one seems off schedule, though.”

  “Do you know where they go?”

  “You must think my curiosity is endless, Bourne,” Teeling said. “Why would I care where a bunch of CEOs go to have deviant sex and plot world takeovers?”

  “In other words, you do know.”

  Teeling got up and poured himself another shot of whiskey. “They pay a lot to shut up the servants and the girls, but rumors go around anyway. It’s a beautiful little rock between here and Freeport. I tried to track the ownership, but it’s buried under a dozen or so shell companies.”

  “I think the island is owned by Miles
Priest.”

  Teeling whistled. “Ah, Miles. I should have guessed. He keeps his fingers in every pie, doesn’t he? We clashed several times when he was running the FBI.”

  “Have you ever been out to the island?”

  “I sailed close enough to get them nervous once. They’ve got a pier for the yachts and a helipad, too. There’s a big estate up on the hill, but it’s mostly hidden in the trees, so you can’t catch more than a glimpse from the water. I was close enough to attract some armed security to the beach. Miles values his privacy.”

  “I need to get out there,” Bourne said.

  “In other words, you want me to take you?” Teeling asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “You got cash? I don’t do things like this for old times’ sake.”

  “I’ve got cash.”

  Teeling rubbed his chin as he sipped his whiskey. “I assume you don’t intend to sail right up to the marina and say hello.”

  “No.”

  “Well, I can take you around the other side of the island. There’s nothing but rocks back there, but I can only get so close.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Odds are, security will see you coming.”

  “I’ll take that chance,” Bourne said.

  “What exactly do you think is going on out there?” Teeling asked.

  Bourne debated how much to say. “Is an organization called Medusa on your radar?”

  “I’ve heard the name, but not much more than that.”

  “From Treadstone?”

  “Actually, no,” Teeling told him. “An old Russian comrade retired down here like me. Very much on the QT. We get drunk on Baikal vodka every now and then. He let the name slip last year like it was a hush-hush operation out of Moscow. Made it sound like it was the next stage after their election interference. But even scarier.”