by James Beltz
Sharlette went down, her feet losing traction in something sickenly slimy. She lost her grip on the man’s arm, one leg went one way, one leg went the other, and Sharlette landed on her butt on the wet floor with a splat. She wasn’t hurt, but she was horrified by what she was sitting in; what was soaking through her pricey slacks and her panties. The very idea that she was sitting in someone else's feces caused bile to rise in her throat, and she coughed to try and keep it down.
She cursed under her breath and held out a hand to her bodyguard. He hesitated, not wanting to get any of it on him. She scowled at him with a rapier-like glare and spoke to him in Spanish. “If you ever want to see the rest of your payment, you better wipe that disgust off your face and help me up.” The man shifted in behind her, reached under her armpits, and lifted her to her feet.
She motioned for him to be quiet and strained her ears, listening. There was movement somewhere behind them; a splashing sound. Whoever it was that attacked her, they were headed this way. How could they know which way she had gone in this maze? she wondered. Shining her light at her feet, she figured it out. They were leaving footprints in the layer of muck on the sewer floor. She cursed again, seized ahold of the bodyguard’s arm, and hauled him forward. She picked up the pace. Not much farther to freedom.
__________
Brett watched Carbon stare at the drone feed, shaking his head. “They could come up anywhere. We’ve got nothing to go on. Seriously, they could have another access in any building or follow the sewers out to what must be a hundred different locations. How are we supposed to help?”
Brett was frustrated. He had years of experience at this sort of thing and a superpower that allowed him to solve riddles. Yet, there he was, stuffed into the back of a van twiddling his thumbs like a passenger in a taxi. His surgery couldn’t get here soon enough. The doctors had said that while it was likely he would regain full mobility, it might take years of physical therapy to accomplish. He would make them out to be fools. No one could be more motivated to recover his freedom than him. No one.
Brett snapped his fingers a few times at the hacker, leaning forward in his seat. “Pass that thing back here. Let me take a look.”
Carbon looked at him like Brett had been popping pills. “This is a highly sophisticated bit of hardware. Flying it takes hours of practice.”
Brett snapped at the young man. “If I have to come up there and take it from you, you’re going to need a rolling chair of your own.”
Carbon swallowed, hesitated, but held it across the seats gingerly. “Be careful. Now, the stick on the right, that controls… Hey! Not so aggressive! You have to massage it, feel your way gently, treat it like a lady. Don’t manhandle it like a teenage boy trying to get to second base.”
Brett didn’t look at him when he answered, focusing on the screen. “How do you know what second base is? Relax, Marvin, she handles like a luxury car.”
Carbon’s growl sounded like tires on a gravel road. “Don’t use my real name!”
Brett’s eyes stayed glued to the screen, searching for answers, trying to discover where Sharlette Hartley would exit the sewers. “Our little secret, my hacking friend.” All at once, Brett spotted something and all of the little file folders in his brain lined up to flash a pulsating green. He pointed at the screen. “There! Get me there. Quick as you can. Move it.”
__________
This wasn’t the first time DJ had been in a sewer. The last time involved him running for his life and waist-deep in blue, treated, icy water. This time he was the one doing the chasing. At least he wasn’t wading through crap like before. It didn’t make it any better, however. The smell made him want to vomit. Cash said little as they navigated the low ceilings, but Argo had plenty to say about the environment. He threatened to send the cleaning bill to DJ and to beat the crap out of Hartley when he caught up to her for making him have to endure this place.
They moved as quickly as they could, hampered by the low ceilings and slick floor. DJ was concerned about the prospects of an ambush. They had no thermal goggles and they kept having to point the flashlights at the ground to follow the obvious footprints. An enemy could just stand there and wait until they got close before attacking. DJ and the others wouldn't be able to detect them until they had walked into the snare. He could only hope the ex-Deputy Director was more concerned with escape than ambushing her pursuers.
At one point, they came across a spot where it looked like someone went down in the green and black gunk. It made DJ smile to think Hartley might have faceplanted in the stuff. The prim and proper, well-dressed woman lying face down in poop was a fitting demise for the woman. Capturing her and making her remain in her soiled clothing for days on end while they took their time transporting her back to the States was an even better one.
They rounded a corner and a familiar sound hit his ears that made him pick up the pace, sprinting forward as best as he could. He could hear the sounds of waves breaking. Sharlette’s makeshift escape tunnel led her to the long dock on the ocean side of the town. There was a good chance she had a boat in position to whisk her out of here in case of an assault. She was going to get away.
The three of them moved forward and rounding a bend, they could suddenly see the night sky at the end of the tunnel. Gratefully, the smell of sewage was rapidly replaced by salty air wafting through the space. Within seconds, their shaft finally ended. The sewer dumped straight into the ocean. There was no beach below, just black water of undetermined depth. Where had she gone? DJ wondered. He leaned out and looked around, spotting a steel ladder protruding from the stone wall of the dock. He killed his flashlight, tucking it away. Grabbing hold of a rung, he scrambled up, his head working back and forth, searching for his quarry.
The dock area was a two-tiered system. The street-level sat higher up, overlooking the lower level, the actual dock on which he was standing. Boats, mostly fishing, were tied up alongside with bumpers hanging over the railing. Many of them had rope ladders hanging down to access the ones with decks closer to the water. Only a few lights stretched down the dock to provide visibility. It was obvious tourism didn’t reach this ancient seaside town. The fleeting light and dim shadows didn’t allow DJ to make out detail at any great distance.
The sound of an engine and tires on cobblestone suddenly appeared on the street above. DJ looked up to see their van pull up right next to the iron fencing, skidding to a halt. The sliding door opened and Brett looked down on them. DJ held his arms out. “We lost them!” Behind him, Argo and Cash had ascended to the worn stone dock, looking in both directions, killing their flashlights as well.
Above them, Brett was searching as well. Suddenly, he pointed. “Five or six boats down!” As if on cue, the sound of a powerful boat motor roaring to life could be heard in the same direction. Brett took aim from where he was, carefully firing off one round at a time. The muffled shots were like handclaps echoing through the night, reverberating down the long and pitted dock.
DJ took off, eager to catch up, his friends on his heels. He only made it a handful of steps when the boat motor revved to full power. DJ’s frustration reached new levels as he could see a lengthy ocean-going powerboat peeling off into the night, its bow tilting up at the sudden thrust of the engines and then slowly dipping as the speed increased, curving toward deeper water. DJ slid to a halt and raised his weapon. In the low light, he could barely make out two figures near the wheel, draped in shadow and hunched low. He took aim, let out a breath, and tried to time the rise and fall of the craft as it cut through the waves. He squeezed off a shot.
One round. Two rounds. A third.
__________
Sharlette ducked even lower into the boat as a round whiffed through the air above her head and struck the windshield. Her bodyguard leaned across the wheel trying to push the throttle even further, willing the vessel to go faster. A second smacked into the dash to her left and she practically buried herself, her smelly self, into the shoulder of her last remain
ing man. She wrapped an arm around him and squeezed herself into him. When this was over, she was going to learn his name and give him a sizable bonus. Besides, she needed someone to accompany her for as long as this journey would take her.
A third round went further to her left, clipping the edge of the fiberglass hull. The rapidly increasing distance was making it harder and harder for whoever was shooting at her. Soon, whoever was shooting wouldn’t have a chance of connecting with one of their bullets. Sharlette was going to get away.
Already, her mind was racing ahead, thinking of how to vanish. She was sure the CIA had sent in a team to take her out. If this were true, then somewhere in orbit was a satellite tracking her location. At a terminal on the other end, was an operator relaying her direction and speed to the team behind her still shooting. She was getting away from them, but she only had so long to dock this thing at the next town and vanish. They wouldn’t be able to stay on the water for long.
Impossibly, a fourth round connected, smashing through the shoulder of her driver and new best friend. Hugging the man as she was, she felt it strike as the bullet sent a rippling shockwave through his body. The man flinched and groaned, jerking the wheel slightly and causing the boat to rock back and forth. She took a look and could see it was nothing life-threatening. She shouted over the roaring engines and crashing waves. “You’re going to be fine. Just a flesh wound. I’ll get you patched up; I swear. Turn south.”
The man said nothing, rotating the wheel at her order and sending the powerboat in a southern heading. To the north was a U.S. Navy base at Rota. There was a good chance they had ships pointed this way at the direction of the team on the docks.
She glanced behind her, watching the docks growing smaller. The shooting had stopped. All Sharlette had to do was put some more distance between them and she was home free. She laughed. Killing someone as seasoned as her would take better planning than what she had just seen. “Children, all of them,” she said out loud.
__________
DJ holstered his weapon. He had failed. Carbon and Brett had driven the van further down to stay close to the rest of the team. He turned and looked up at Brett. “See if you can get Ali on the phone. We need him to try and access satellite imagery and see if he can find out where she’s gone.”
Brett nodded and then pointed down the dock. “There’s some stairs and a ramp that will lead you back to the street. We need to get out of here.”
Another voice spoke behind him, a woman’s voice. “Leaving so soon?”
DJ drew and spun. Cash and Argo responded in kind, rotating their weapons in the same direction. Sara Anderson stood on the deck of a small fishing boat; her hands raised.
She eyed them all. “I’m not armed. Well, I mean, I am, of course, but I left it behind me in the cabin. You know, you guys are like ticks. You just keep showing up in the worst places.”
DJ wanted to shoot her. He wanted to end her right then. She had killed a member of his team. True, she had been set up to believe they were the enemy. True, she had saved Brett’s life. It didn’t matter though, the woman was psycho. While her targets were usually deserving of assassination, she had no issues with taking out innocent bystanders in the process. Her sense of morality was warped. She was beyond rehabilitation. She had a sick, twisted habit, and she just needed to go. And yet, he didn’t just shoot her in the head and walk away.
He re-holstered. He needed to. The urge to shoot her through the nose was overwhelming. Besides, Cash and Argo could take her if she tried anything stupid. He was curious. She could have hidden; they would have never known she was there. She could have ambushed them, maybe taking them all out, but she didn’t. Why, wasn’t the real question. The real question had to do with her presence on this dock in a small fishing village in Spain. So, he asked her. “Why are you here, Sara Anderson?”
She lowered her arms but kept her hands visible. “Same reason as you, handsome. To kill Sharlette Hartley. I figured if I could do this, it might put me back in good graces with the CIA. If I could serve her head up on a platter, maybe I could get my old job back. This whole thing has had me reevaluating my life. I’ve made some bad choices. You made me see that. I want to try and make it right. If I could get my old job back, I would be placing myself in a box to make sure the good I do isn’t overshadowed by the bad.” She shrugged. “That was the thought, at least. Then you guys come in waving your guns around like a bunch of Army recruits fresh out of basic and ruin everything. It was all under control until you showed up.”
Argo stepped forward. “You were going to blow her up, weren’t you?”
She nodded. “I had every one of those sedans she was about to flee in wired with explosives. The plan was to wait until she got to the outskirts of town and then…” She held her fists together and then separated them, extending her fingers. “Poof. Like the woman never existed at all.”
Sara looked at DJ. “Any chance you’re going to let me live? I tracked her down once. I can do it again. You just have to let me go.”
DJ envisioned scenarios with her running and back and forth on his gun range, using her for target practice. He thought of tying her up to some of her own explosives and making her go poof, like she never existed at all. But suddenly, DJ had a better idea. One that would ensure she really did turn over a new leaf.
He crossed his arms and sized her up. “I have a better idea. You come to work for me.”
In unison, Cash and Argo turned their heads and looked at him like he had just renounced steak and vowed to become a vegan. “What?” they both cried out in shock.
DJ nodded. “This way I get to keep a close eye on you. This way I get to make sure that you try to make this right. Coonie, that was the person you killed, had family back in Louisiana. They live on this little farm out in the swamp, raising pigs. She sent the majority of her pay back to them. Her dad’s sick and her brother is autistic. You’re going to step into that role. You’re going to help them out now that she’s gone. You’ll earn a paycheck working for me, and you’ll send the bulk of it to them. They’ll never know where it’s coming from, but you’ll help them all the same. Carbon will take care of the logistics. You miss a payment, you give me any reason to doubt that you’ve turned over a new leaf, I’ll chop you up into little pieces and feed you to their pigs.”
Sara blinked in surprise, genuinely dumbfounded at the offer. She looked at them all, overcome. Finally, she stepped off the boat to stand in front of DJ. “I won’t let you down, I promise. And I’ll take care of her family. I’ll do whatever I can to make this right for as long as it takes.” She reached into her pocket and DJ felt himself tense, ready for her to try something. She didn’t. She pulled out her cellphone and tapped twice on the screen. Handing it over, she said, “While I was casing this place, I found the boat she had prepared in case she needed to get out here quickly. I wired it with explosives too. Dial that number and Sharlette Hartley will go up in a brilliant fireball out on the water. I’m sure she’s still in range of a cell signal.”
DJ looked at the phone, and then at her. “You had this the whole time but didn’t say anything. Why?”
She shrugged. “Insurance.”
DJ looked at the phone. He dialed the number. He watched with great satisfaction as Sharlette Hartley’s boat blew up exactly as Sara said it would. They all stood there for a moment, enjoying the show. Then they left. They could finally get on with their lives and put this story behind them.
Poof, DJ thought. Like she never even existed at all.
Chapter 22: New Sheriff in Town
DJ, Abbi, Cash, Argo, and Carbon exited the van that had transported them to the place they had once called home and would now do so again. The old Air National Guard base outside of Jasper, Texas, had extensive renovations and additions since the last time they were here. The place was disguised as a company performing electronics and flight control upgrades for military aircraft. The cover story allowed for transports from every branch of the service t
o fly in and out with little suspicion from the people who lived nearby. All who worked here were employed by the government and held the highest security clearance. It was a top-secret facility stationed in plain sight; a cooperative endeavor by the Pentagon and the FBI, and vigorously secured by tight-lipped Marines.
DJ held mixed emotions in coming back. Their leaving had not sat well with him. They had only tried to do the right thing and prevent a global war. Their government had fought them, not believing the concern was real. Politicians had been more concerned with their imagery on the global stage. DJ and the team had been ordered to stand down. They had ignored that request and conducted unsanctioned and armed actions in the politically neutral country of Sweden. The Swedes were not happy, and DJ and the others were blackballed in the process. DJ supposed it could have been far worse. They could have all ended up in a foreign prison.
Since leaving, DJ had enjoyed his freedom. His team called the shots. They did what they wanted to do and how they wanted to do it. The CIA made their living on keeping things secret. So, when DJ decided to break the rules, his CIA friends tended to turn a blind eye and pretend nothing happened, happy as clams to get the end result they were after, more than willing to cover up the team’s exploits and make it go away.
Coming back within the fold of the FBI came with certain restrictions. DJ was still able to operate without the normal level of bureaucracy that was found in an FBI Field Office, having only to answer to the Director. Still, politics within an organization of this size could not be eradicated entirely, and politics was something DJ detested with a white-hot passion. But, that wouldn’t be his problem to deal with and navigate. That was part of Brett’s job. It was something the man was good at.
DJ had required Sara Anderson to undergo FBI training at Quantico. He did this to ingrain rules and procedures back into her brain. She had been a rogue operator for far too long. He felt she could use a refresher course in discipline. Sara would have company as well. Mary Abbot, Abbi’s good friend, had already been accepted. Should Mary pass her training, and DJ had every belief the fearless ex-Marine would, he had already planned to bring her into the fold. As such, he had given her a mission already. Mary had been instructed to keep an eye on Sara and report on how she was coming along. Brett had even made a call and arranged for the two women to be roommates, just to make sure. If Sara was half as good at playing the game as DJ assumed, he was sure the mad bomber would figure out she was being spied on. Still, he needed good intel on her and how she was faring, being constrained as she would be.