by J. B. Turner
His actions made no sense. He was doing everything he’d been trained not to.
The decision to go rogue and tear down the Commission had now fully engulfed him. He wasn’t thinking straight. But by this point he didn’t give a damn about the consequences. Devoid of reason, all he had was a visceral rage propelling him on. But to what end?
Half an hour later, he was in the parking garage of a hospital. He picked up the backpack and disappeared down a stairwell.
Nathan called 911, gave the license plate number. “Level Four, Toyota Prius. The guy’s in the trunk. He’s lost some blood.”
He ended the call.
Nathan went into a coffee shop on Queen Street East. He got a large latte, a muesli bar, and a chocolate muffin for energy and some water. He sat down, back to the brick wall, backpack at his feet. He looked around. The café was filled with a sprinkling of young men and women chatting, drinking coffee, laughing, some working on laptops, some gazing at their phones. His natural habitat was a bar. A dive bar, Stones on, some people playing pool. Cold beers. That was his thing.
He enjoyed the caffeine hit, ate the snacks, guzzled the water, and felt a million percent better.
He pulled out the security guard’s cell phone and surreptitiously looked again at the images of the Chechens.
Nathan wondered exactly what he should do. He’d gotten his sister back. He didn’t have a dog in this fight, not anymore. But the tidal wave of anger Clayton Wilson and the rest had sparked in him was threatening to drown him. He thought back to Richard Stanton’s final words. This wouldn’t end with the death of these five men. It would go on.
He didn’t have a reason to be back in Toronto. He should have just disappeared and been glad he had his sister back. But the sequence of events he’d initiated—forcing the handler in Toronto to flee, then heading to New York to kill all members of the Commission—had emboldened him.
But he wasn’t doing it for money. So what did it matter to him if a hit was planned in Toronto that night, or the next day, or whenever?
Was it simply that he wanted retribution, in whatever form, to weaken, undermine, and ultimately destroy the organization that had made him? He was destroying his creator. Was that it? Anything they wanted to do, he had to stop. Was that really why he’d saved Mahoney and his family?
The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if there was something else at work. Maybe he wasn’t irredeemably damaged. Maybe deep within him, within his soul, within his very being, he was beginning to sense more human qualities. He wasn’t wired the same way as everyone else. He knew that. But was it possible there was a small part of him that had feelings?
It was as if he was being pulled toward his fate by mysterious forces. Maybe to his doom. Nathan looked again at the photos on the phone. He thought of Mahoney trying to piece together the whole story. His mind flashed to images of the journalist and his family gasping for breath after he’d dragged them out of the smoke-filled basement of the house in East Hampton.
What did it matter to him? Mahoney’s life was his own. Then he began to consider other questions.
What if Mahoney had this information about the Chechens? What would he do with it? Apart from giving him a potentially great lead in the story, maybe another piece of the jigsaw, it would also result in the images being forwarded to the Feds. The cops in Toronto. Homeland Security.
And they could then take action, perhaps thwarting the assassination attempt that was almost certainly under way in the city at that moment.
Nathan checked the GPS location where the photos had been taken. Sixty miles north of Toronto. He made a mental note. Then he sent the photos to his iPhone. From there he sent them to Mahoney. Then he got up, dropping a ten-dollar tip on the table, and headed out onto the street.
Sixty-Five
Mahoney was sitting at his desk in the Times office, staring at the images Nathan had just sent. He saved them to Dropbox so there was a backup.
A few moments later, his cell phone rang.
“Did you get the photos?” Nathan asked.
Mahoney’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m looking at them now. Who are they?”
“I’ve been told they’re Chechens. They get the blame. So this is a false flag.”
Mahoney looked at the faces. “How do you know?”
“That’s what I was told by a guy in Toronto.”
“How do I know this is for real?”
“You don’t.”
“Why are you sending me these pictures?”
“I’m assuming journalists have a moral responsibility to alert the authorities if they believe a terrorist operation might be under way.”
“Do you have names?”
“No. And you need to get into protective custody. Now. Since I didn’t neutralize you, I think someone else will.”
“These two?”
“I don’t think so. The operation today in Toronto, these two have been picked for it.”
Mahoney wondered why Nathan was telling him all this. “You want me to disrupt this operation? Stop it?”
Nathan said nothing.
“Are you fucking with me?”
“What do you think?”
Mahoney leaned back in his seat and sighed. “No, I don’t think you’re fucking with me. Let’s assume what you’re saying is true. Remember that list you sent me?”
“Sure.”
“There were no Canadians on the list.”
“Maybe someone on the list is visiting Canada.”
Mahoney said, “Then again, what if there’s an updated list?”
“Perhaps.”
“I still don’t understand why you’re doing this. You were hired to kill me.”
“That’s what they wanted me to do. But then they would’ve killed my sister too. And then ultimately me. The moment I killed you, they would have killed my sister.”
Mahoney cleared his throat.
“You writing the story?”
“Working on it now.”
“Do it. And then get safe. They’re going to come for you, Mark.”
Sixty-Six
Across the newsroom, Mahoney saw Caroline Ovitz, managing editor of news, the most senior person there with the executive editor out of the office. He picked up his iPad, approached her, and smiled.
“Hey, Mark,” she said, catching his eye. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks. If sleep deprivation were an Olympic sport, I’d win gold, trust me.”
She laughed.
“Caroline, do you have a few minutes?”
“Now?”
“Yeah . . . Something pretty urgent has come up.”
Ovitz nodded. “OK. Wasn’t Mort overseeing something you were working on? An investigation?”
“Yes, he was. Spoke to him first thing. I’m working on it now.”
Ovitz smiled. “Mort gave me an indication of what it was.”
“He did? OK, that’s fine.”
Ovitz cocked her head and he followed her through the newsroom and into her huge office. He pulled up a seat as she sat down behind her desk. “Mort’s been following this story with interest. And he confided in me a little while back. So it’s him, me, and the publisher that know.”
“Not another soul?”
Ovitz nodded. “Not another soul.”
Mahoney sighed.
“Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I just got a call. From a guy in Toronto.”
Ovitz leaned back in her seat.
“It was the guy who sent me the list. The original list.”
“The assassin?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
“I had a drink with him in New York.”
“Are you kidding me?” she said. “Mort didn’t tell me that.”
“There are so many things, it’s hard to keep up. Anyway, he sent me some photos.”
Ovitz arched her eyebrows. “The guy everyone thought was dead? Nathan Stone, right?”
&n
bsp; “Right.” Mahoney opened up the message with the photographs. He handed the iPad to Ovitz.
“What is this?”
“According to my assassin friend, these are two Chechens. And he says they’ve been tasked with some kind of terrorist act in Toronto later today.”
Ovitz stared at the photos. “On whose orders?”
“I don’t know the ins and outs. He passed these on hoping I’ll alert the authorities.”
“What if it’s fake?”
“What if it’s not?”
Ovitz sighed. “Yeah.”
“I think this is linked to the facility. The Canadian facility.”
“The secret facility?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“And this comes from Nathan Stone?”
Mahoney nodded. “Yeah, he used the words false flag.”
“Meaning throwing the blame at someone else during a war?”
“Pretty much. So, in this case, having these Chechens carry out the operation, or just being blamed for it. And the finger would be pointed at Islamists. But the people pulling the strings aren’t Islamists. They want to neutralize someone who doesn’t fit in with their worldview.”
“We’re talking about Clayton Wilson and his gang?”
Mahoney nodded.
“But they’re dead.”
“Yeah. But Nathan believes that’s not the end of it. Not by a long shot.”
“We’ll have to call it in.”
Mahoney cleared his throat as a wave of anxiety washed over him. “That’s what I was thinking.”
Ovitz picked up the phone.
“Who’re you calling?”
“Mort. Then the Feds.”
Sixty-Seven
Nathan stole a car with a modified keyless fob the security guy had packed in the backpack. He drove away from the parking garage and entered the GPS coordinates of the spot where the photos of the Chechens had been taken. It was sixty miles north of Toronto.
Just over an hour later, he pulled up. He could see it in the distance.
Out on the lake was a massive island covered in trees, shrubs, and bushes. Was this the place he’d been brought to?
Nathan trained his binoculars on it. Just over eight hundred yards away, a jetty, a few boats. He saw cameras.
He rechecked the GPS from the security guy’s phone. This was it.
Nathan stared through the binoculars at the facility. Steel-and-concrete modernist structures were visible amid the forest and woodland. He moved the field of view and saw a sign for an electric fence. He focused and refocused and saw the ten-foot-high steel barrier virtually overgrown with ferns, trees.
He scanned the rest of the island, back to the jetty and beyond. He saw gas tanks to fuel the boats. But twenty yards from that, he also spotted what looked like a huge generator, enclosed by another electric fence.
A few minutes later, a small plane emerged and flew out and above the treetops on the island. It looked like a Gulfstream. He watched it disappear high through the clouds.
Nathan put down the binoculars and dialed Mahoney. The phone rang six times before it was picked up.
“Who’s this?” The journalist sounded strained.
“You know who.”
“Nathan . . . I was just talking about you.”
“Taking about me to who?”
“My boss. About running the story. But also about what you were telling me about Toronto. The Chechens.”
“What are you doing about it?”
“My boss spoke to the Feds and we’ve sent the photos to them. They’ve sent them to the Canadians.”
“Excellent. That’s a start.”
“Where are you? Still in Toronto?”
“I’m watching the facility.”
“You found it?”
“It’s an island in the middle of a goddamn lake. Covered in trees and God knows what. That’s where they must have taken me when they flew me in, I’m convinced.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“I just saw a plane take off. I can’t see the airfield. But it’s there somewhere.”
“Where exactly is this?”
Nathan gave him the GPS coordinates. “Listen, pass on the coordinates too. Very important. Lake Simcoe. North of Toronto.”
A heavy sigh down the line.
“You sound stressed.”
“Yeah . . . a bit.”
“You’re running out of time. You need to get the Feds to pick you up and get you to safety. It won’t end well, if I know these people.”
“I should be done soon.”
“No further information about possible targets?”
“We’re trying to find out if there are any high-profile public events in Toronto, but there’s nothing of note.”
“I don’t think it’s necessarily a high-profile event. But it would have to be in public.”
“So maybe a routine engagement for a high-profile person.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll make a few inquiries.”
“Get the GPS coordinates to the Feds to pass on. This is the second facility, I have no doubt.”
Mahoney went quiet.
“What are you thinking?” Nathan asked.
“I’m just wondering if we could get a chopper up there, get some aerial footage of the facility.”
Nathan looked toward the island.
“What are you going to do, Nathan?”
“I’ll see you around.”
Nathan ended the call. He pulled out the parts of the Barrett, locked and loaded the magazine. Flicked off the safety. Then he watched and waited for the right moment.
Sixty-Eight
Berenger was staring at the big screens of live feeds from outside the Toronto hospital. He checked his watch and the “official” clock up on the wall. “We’re three and counting down, folks,” he said. “Two hours and fifty-six minutes from now!”
Operation director Malcolm Strutt was standing, arms crossed, watching the feeds. He adjusted the Bluetooth microphone in his ear. “OK, Melissa, can you pan around three-sixty degrees so we get a full idea of what we’ve got?”
The screens showed TV news crews setting up. Cables being unfurled, laptops being checked, journalists drinking coffee in the backs of TV vans. “That’s great,” he said. “So you’re in prime position?”
“Right up in front with my Canadian friends.”
“OK, let’s keep the chat to the bare minimum,” Strutt said.
“Got it.”
“So let’s keep this live. Satellite feed coming through perfect.”
“Good to hear.”
Strutt took off his headset.
“How are we looking?” Berenger asked.
“Toronto? We’re set. The two Chechens are now en route. Be touching down in a matter of minutes.”
“What about New York? What about Mahoney?”
Strutt nodded and put his headset back on. “Pull up the feed from Chelsea, guys.”
A few moments later, on the main screen they saw the line-of-sight view of Mark Mahoney’s apartment from a nearby surveillance vehicle. The camera zoomed in on the front door of the elegant townhouse.
Strutt cleared his throat. “Thanks. Stay focused.”
The screen returned to the live feed in Toronto. Journalists laughing, drinking coffee, some TV reporters adjusting their shirts, jackets.
Berenger smiled. “So we’re good for Toronto and New York.”
“Damn straight.”
Berenger’s gaze was drawn to the live feed from Toronto. “Malcolm, the guy who just entered the shot, short black hair, mauve tie.”
“Yeah?”
“He looks familiar.”
“Caleb McNeill. Well-known spin doctor for the Canadian prime minister.”
Berenger felt his stomach knot.
Strutt looked at him. “How you feeling?”
“Counting down the minutes.”
Strutt grinned. “Let’s get this done. And let’s get
it over the line.”
Sixty-Nine
Nathan was lying on his belly in the woods adjacent to the lake, the butt of the rifle pressed hard against the soft part of his right shoulder. His gaze was drawn to a speck on the horizon. The familiar sound of the Gulfstream’s engines. Closer and closer it flew. It banked sharply over the lake as it came in low for its final approach.
He held his breath. He wondered if this was the same plane that had taken off thirty minutes earlier. It would be a short journey to and from Toronto.
Nathan took aim. He felt his finger on the cold metal trigger. Then he squeezed. The red tracer ammo exploded out of the rifle and headed straight for the Gulfstream. The smell of cordite. A split second later, a deafening noise from the shot.
He watched as the red tracer ripped into the plane as if in slow motion. The plane banked heavily, as if about to crash into the lake. But it spun as it caught fire, a gaping hole in the fuselage, before crashing straight into the huge gas tanks adjacent to the facility.
A massive fireball erupted and the flames licked the sky, setting off multiple explosions as other tanks caught, tearing into the ashen Canadian sky. The firestorm quickly spread to the trees covering the huge island.
Nathan once again pressed the butt of the rifle hard against his right shoulder. He lined up the sights, the steel monstrosity of the facility glinting in the pale sun, peeking through the clouds.
He took aim. And squeezed.
Seventy
The building rocked and the security screens showed the flames devouring the screen of trees shielding the facility as Berenger watched, aghast. The sound of security alarms rang out, and red emergency lights flashed.
“What the fuck is this, Malcolm? Where the hell did this come from?”
Strutt had his hands on his hips, face flushed, eyes fixed on the screen. “Talk to me, Aaron!” he shouted into his Bluetooth headset.
The head of security came on the line. “Tracer fire, direct hit on upper Level Four. Plane is down. I repeat, the plane is obliterated.”
“Fuck!” Strutt said. “Where is this coming from?”
“We have a chopper about to take off, but we believe it came from due east, directly across from the headland. Incendiary tracer.”