Resuming his upward trek, Jack reached the roof and quickly took stock of his surroundings. His original plan to jump to the next building had been scrapped; they’d figure out where he’d gone too quickly to make that avenue of escape viable now.
Looking around, Jack spotted some cables looped up in one corner of the roof and quickly sprinted toward them. He tied one end off in the kind of knot that used to give the old sailor in his father fits because he always had to cut the knot loose as untying it was impossible.
For just an instant, Jack flashed back to that memory, his father grousing about the knot, and Jack retorting that his knots never failed, unlike the occasional slippages his father and brother suffered.
Shaking it off, Jack tossed the cable over the side and, with it firmly in both hands, started over the side just as two men burst out onto the roof. From the floor beneath came the screeching sound of tires slamming to a halt as the car ran out of upward passageway and stopped a few feet short of a solid wall.
The two men on the roof and their two compatriots in the car looked around in confusion. None able to figure out where their quarry had gotten off to as there simply wasn’t anywhere for him to be hiding.
Suddenly one of the men on the roof noticed the cable wiggling back and forth.
“He’s climbing down on the outside of the wall,” the man shouted into a microphone attached to his coat sleeve. The two men raced down and leapt into the car, then headed down the levels.
Jack had worked his way back down four levels before slipping back into the building through an opening that allowed exhaust fumes from all of the cars to. He found himself re-entering the building almost right on top of his own car.
He heard the car barreling back down from the upper levels and decided right then and there he was sick and tired of this game. Taking a stance just a few feet in front of the rear of the Mustang, Jack drew his weapon and waited.
The car flew around the corner, nearly slamming into a couple of parked cars before straightening out. Jack could see that there were now four men in the car, and was pretty sure this was the entire team they’d sent after him.
The car accelerated and drove straight toward him while Jack merely smiled grimly and took aim at the driver’s side of the oncoming sedan. When only twenty feet separated him from the front of the onrushing vehicle, Jack unloaded the remaining shots in his clip then threw himself over to the side.
At no time did the car slow down, plowing at full speed into the rear of his mother’s car, driving the Mustang into the concrete wall. The man in the front passenger seat had not worn his seat belt and had been ejected through the windshield to land in a bloody heap in the front seat of the Mustang.
Glancing at the driver, Jack could see the man had been hit several times and was most likely been dead before impact. Judging by the depth the steering wheel had been driven into the man’s chest he wouldn’t have survived anyway.
The two men in the back were in little better shape. But before Jack could think, the leaking fuel from the two cars caught and the flames quickly spread. Jack turned to run, and nearly made it back to the half-wall, intending to leap over to safety, when the fuel tanks exploded.
He’d made it just far enough to avoid serious injury, getting burned by the fire or struck by debris. But instead of a controlled landing on the floor below, the force of the blast was enough to send Jack sailing onto the roof of one of the cars below, bouncing hard and landing on the unforgiving concrete floor.
As the fire raged above, Jack lay in an unmoving heap a level below.
***
Flight 219 was about to begin boarding at Reagan International. Georgetown University was scheduled to play UNLV in a highly—touted men’s basketball game the following night and most of the plane was booked by Hoyas fans eager to see the nation’s second-ranked team continue its unstoppable march to a much-anticipated national championship.
The two plane tickets Sara had in her possession represented less than a dozen seats that had not been filled by the Hoyas faithful. It was going to be an interesting flight to say the least, and not the least bit quiet either, judging by the noise they were generating in the gate area.
But the boisterous flight ahead was the last thing on her mind as she kept looking back toward the terminal, hoping to catch sight of Jack sprinting for the gate. Each passing minute seemed like a lifetime to her as she waited. She had no doubt at all that Jack would keep his promise and come out to Vegas to be with her just as soon as he could.
But she wanted with all of her being to have him fly out with her today, so she kept her hopeful, lonely vigil while fighting off the feeling that he actually wasn’t going to make it in time.
At the boarding desk, a man had camped out next to the ticket agent. On his face was the same frantic, hopeful expression. The airline, as was standard practice, had overbooked the flight, and the man had drawn the unfortunate short straw of being placed on standby; left to hope that someone would cancel or just not show up in time.
They had made the offer earlier to all of the passengers for a ticket on a later flight plus two hundred dollars cash if someone would be willing to give up their seat on this flight. But there had been no takers. Everyone, it seemed, was in a hurry to get to Vegas.
“Has anyone cancelled yet,” the man asked desperately, and for the tenth time in as many minutes. “I've got to get to Vegas as soon as possible.”
“I'm very sorry, sir,” the ticket agent said patiently. “No one has canceled their reservation. We'll check again right before take-off. If there's an empty seat, we'll get you on.”
The man walked away a few steps, his head hanging morosely. Sara kept pacing back and forth, checking her watch as an overhead speaker announced that they were beginning to board the plane.
She watched as the passengers slowly filed into the jet way and headed down toward the 737 that would carry them all westward. Her two seats were assigned, so she waited out in the terminal, determined to give Jack every possible second to show up.
The man desperate to get on the flight had been counting passengers, knowing exactly how many seats were on the jet, hoping when the last person walked down the ramp there would be one precious empty seat.
When they announced final boarding, Sara finally realized that Jack wasn’t coming, at least not with her today.
“Damn you, Jack De Rio,” she said softly to herself as she looked down the terminal one final time. “I'd better see you in Vegas soon. I love you, Jack.”
Sara turned and walked up to the man who had returned to the kiosk with a hopeful expression. His count had come up two short. Only now did Sara really look at him, offhandedly noticing that he was very similar in build and hair color as Jack.
“Excuse me,” Sara said as she walked up to the kiosk. “I overheard you saying that you needed a seat on this flight. It looks like my friend isn't going to show and I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you used it.”
For a moment Sara wasn’t sure if the man had heard her, or if he had heard her and was too stunned at his good fortune to actually believe what he was hearing her say. She would not have been surprised if he had folded up and collapsed to the carpeted floor.
“That would be wonderful, ma'am,” he replied, with just a slight southern drawl. “My wife went into labor out in Las Vegas and I've got to get out there before the baby arrives.”
“Your first?” Sara asked as she handed the agent her ticket, pleased the young father-to-be could make ‘his arrival’.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, handing over his ID and ticket to the agent. “It’s going to be a boy.” He held out his hand to thank her. “Thank you!”
“Consider it a late baby shower gift,” Sara said, gripping his hand firmly. “Come on, we'd better get on board before the plane takes off without us.”
Sara waited for the man to retrieve his ID and confirm that his luggage would be placed on board before takeoff. Together they headed for the check-in and
strolled side by side into the jet way.
“So, have you and your wife picked out a name yet?” Sara asked as they headed down the ramp toward the waiting jet.
With their backs to the terminal, neither of them noticed three men, dressed in dark suits, dashing into the gate area assigned for Flight 219.
One of the three men spotted Sara, who had her head turned just enough to make out her profile and pointed her out to his two companions. All they could see from their vantage point was that she was walking and talking with a man who, from behind at least, perfectly matched the description they’d been given of Jack Del Rio.
The men tried to get closer, but Sara and her companion had reached the point in the jet way that turned left at an angle. None of the three men ever got a clear look at the face of the man walking with Sara.
The leader of the team briefly considered his options. He could flash a badge and make an excuse for getting on the plane long enough to get absolute confirmation that Del Rio had just boarded Flight 219, but that might lead to unwanted questions later.
No, he decided, Del Rio was expected to be traveling with the woman they had definitely spotted, and what little they had seen of the man matched Del Rio as well. He was fully confident that Jack Del Rio was on board Flight 219. He pulled out his cell phone and quickly punched in a number. After a very brief pause, his call was connected.
“Confirmed,” he said quickly and quietly. “The target is on board. Deliver the package.”
He pocketed the phone and the three men quickly turned and departed the terminal. They’d done their job.
Out on the tarmac, beneath the belly of Flight 219, near the cargo hatch, one of the ground crew slipped his cell phone back into his pocket. He carefully looked around to make sure no one was paying him any undue attention and quickly walked over to the luggage cart.
Picking up a gaudy looking piece of cheap-looking, yellow and red luggage, he walked it over and dropped it onto the conveyor belt, where it trundled its way upward to be tossed into the luggage compartment.
No one noticed the suitcase, just like no one noticed the man who had loaded the piece onto the belt walk briskly off the tarmac, open a door to the building, and never once look back.
Once the last piece of baggage had been placed into the hold, the black bag belonging to the expectant father travelling with Sara, the belt pulled away and the cargo hatch was closed.
Inside the plane, the hatch had been closed and sealed minutes before, and the jet way pulled back. After a few moments, the 737 was pushed back from the gate until it was clear. The tractor detached and the jet rolled out to taxi toward the runway.
By the time the jet turned onto the runway for takeoff, the three men and their compatriot on the tarmac were already exiting the airport.
SIXTEEN
Dying on the streets of Washington D.C., in the broad daylight, had not been the final fate that Karpov had ever expected. Yet here he was, running for his life in the capital city of the country that had been his enemy’s territory for most of his adult life.
He’d been on his way to answer Del Rio’s e-mail, to meet with him the night before. The news of the Los Angeles’ sinking served as final notice that his friend, Cashman, was indeed dead, and that the young Del Rio had lost his brother, too.
He’d tried to make the rendezvous and failed. Somehow the account he had set up had been compromised; they’d been waiting for him. He’d gotten away last night, but hadn’t been afforded a moment’s peace, much less enough time to try to contact and warn his last living ally.
For a man of his years, he was doing quite well at staying ahead of his pursuers, but he was breathing hard and the pain radiating from every joint in his old bones was becoming quite unbearable. He ducked around the corner, and finding himself on a deserted street, leaned up against a street sign, every cell in his body screaming out for rest.
He heard the car before he ever saw it. Two blocks down the street the black sedan that had pursued him throughout the night careened around the corner and hurdled down the street straight at him.
Sacrificing enough breath to mutter an old, Russian curse, Karpov turned and ran half a block before ducking down an alley. The sedan bolted past the entrance to the alley but quickly slammed on its brakes sliding by only a few yards. Slamming the car into reverse, the driver backed up to the alley. Two men jumped from the car and dashed into the narrow lane in pursuit.
Karpov heard the commotion behind but kept his focus ahead, taking the left turn at the end of the alley and running for a few steps before coming to a halt. He was looking at a dead end. Everywhere he looked was all walls, no doors, no ladders, and no obvious exit at all for him to use to escape.
He turned around to face the way he’d just come, gasping for air, hearing the footfalls of his pursuers as they ran down their quarry. He’d lost his weapon sometime last night during the pursuit; helpless, no defense against armed professionals over half his age.
The two men made the turn and stopped, smiling when the saw Karpov standing there like a lamb for the slaughter.
In the car at the head of the alley, the driver heard the gunshots, then silence. Satisfied, he pulled out his cell phone and called in confirmation.
***
Cavanaugh was back in his office when Collins walked in, not a happy man at all. “We’ve received a report from Jack’s apartment,” he said woodenly. “They've discovered one body inside Jack’s car and at least three more inside the car belonging to our team. All were badly burned. But it’s clear what happened, they surprised Jack, there was a gun fight, and they crashed into his car.”
“Positive identification?” Cavanaugh asked bluntly. “And I thought there were four men assigned to the apartment.”
“The fire and explosion was pretty intense. The remains were badly burned; body parts from the sedan were all over the place. It will be some time before they positively identify our team members and update the official number of dead to five. The body in the Mustang has to be Jack’s.”
“I know you were close, Baker,” Cavanaugh said, “but it had to be done.”
“I suppose so,” Baker allowed not interested in Cavanaugh’s insincere platitudes. “We need to call off the team at the airport. Jack isn’t making that flight.”
“Very well,” Cavanaugh agreed, picking up his phone. “Abort the mission…What?” he exclaimed after pausing to listen to the reply, shooting an alarmed look at Collins. “Explain…I see. I want you to head for his apartment and search it thoroughly. We want to know what he discovered and if he was able to transmit that information to another party…I know, but the other team is unavailable for the search and I am handing the assignment to you. Go!” Cavanaugh slammed the phone down, a stunned look on his face as he stared at Collins.
“What is it?” Collins demanded, unsettled by Cavanaugh accusing stare. “What did he say?”
“He said,” Cavanaugh answered with deliberate slowness, “that they placed the bomb on Flight 219 immediately after they spotted Del Rio, or at least someone closely matching his description, boarding the plane along with his lady friend.”
“How can that be if he was killed in his car?” Collins asked, confused at the conflicting reports.
“A very good question, Director,” Cavanaugh snapped, displeased. “If that is him in the car at his apartment, then who in the hell got on to Flight 219 with his girlfriend?”
“And if that isn’t him in that burned out car,” Collins countered, “then what in the hell is he doing getting on that plane so soon after an obvious assassination attempt?”
“It doesn’t matter, Baker.” Cavanaugh glanced at his watch as he got up from his desk and walked over to the lone window in the room. “If that really is his charred body in the car at his garage, then our problem is solved. If it isn't…”
Cavanaugh trailed off as he kept watching the outside world.
Within five seconds, a huge fireball erupted high in the sky ove
r the Atlantic, where planes taking off from Reagan International would fly out to before turning west after reaching their cruising altitudes.
Miniature fireballs and smoking debris tumbled downward, the remains of what had only seconds before been Flight 219 bound for Las Vegas. As the fireball faded, and only wisps of smoke remained in the air from the doomed flight, Cavanaugh turned away from the grisly sight.
“…then our problem is still solved I’ll give Georgina a call and let her know the last possible barrier to our success has been eliminated. Relax, Baker, by this time next week everything we have worked so hard for will finally be ours.”
***
Jack had no idea exactly how long he’d been lying unconscious on the cold concrete. It couldn’t have been too long as no one had rushed into the building yet. As he struggled to his feet the ringing in his ears eventually faded, only to be replaced by the ringing of the garage’s fire alarm. Sprinklers on the level above poured water onto the cars above and the water was starting to run down the ramp to the level where Jack now shakily stood. The smell of burning fuel and burnt flesh permeated the air along with the smoke, choking him.
After a quick inventory Jack determined he wasn’t seriously injured, although he was sure the bruises would soon manifest themselves in several areas. He felt like he’d been used as a ping pong ball to the car’s paddles, and he was slightly singed in a few places. At least he was alive.
Sirens wailed not too far away, signaling him to a hasty departure.
Still unsteady on his feet, Jack headed to the exit sign, scanning the area for further threats. He managed the stairs to the ground floor on wobbly legs. Cracking the door, he looked all around.
Smoke poured out from above and the attention of everyone nearby was drawn to that area of the building. No one took notice of him as he slipped out and across the street to enter the back of his apartment building.
Jack Del Rio: Complete Trilogy: Reservations, Betrayals, Endgames Page 36