“I could care less about your intentions. I want results. See that Gibson arrives at his destination. In one piece.”
“Same here with my mates,” Tam answered.
Hester nodded back.
Suddenly Carmen started shouting upstairs. We all looked at each other.
“Guess he told her,” I said.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: NO TRANSLATION NEEDED
Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs district. Callejón del Apuro, “Trouble Alley”. 6:22 p.m. Day Five.
“You trust the little creep?” I asked Tam as soon as the door scraped shut.
“About as far as I can throw him, which wouldn’t be far unless it was off a cliff.” Tam pulled his Tavor TAR 21 out of a crate. “But he knew about Toulouse, the mosque, the pistol, he found us in the middle of the BMZ sprawl for God’s sake.” He looked back at me. “We were going to the Docks anyway. Mr. Hester there just sped things up. You got in touch with Rao, right?”
“Yeah. He knows we’re leaving. He’ll be waiting for us.”
“Good. This might work out. We’ve got a shot at salvaging something out of this cluster.”
“You’re not thinking of bringing Gibson to APAC?”
“We could end up getting paid.”
“We could end up getting dead,” I said.
“I told Poet9 to take the Triplets and meet us at the Docks. My guess is they’ll lurk on the sidelines and watch our backs.”
“Answer the question. We’re responsible for—”
“For ourselves, for the Garcías, to stay in business and stay alive,” Tam finished. “That’s the bottom line. Why’d you think I made a deal with him?”
“What about Gibson?”
“What about him? They probably have some way to extract or stabilize the nanites.”
I shook my head. “This is cat food, Tam. We’re running blind here.”
“Yeah well, you got a better plan, I’m all ears,” Tam said. “We’re going to have to improvise.”
“You mean make it up as we go.”
“Yep,” Tam shrugged. “Gather up what you need, get Gibson and switch on Shorty’s fogger thing. I really hope they work. Maybe Al and Carmen can come back when this blows over. I’m going to grab everything I think we might need. Meet me down here with the kid.”
As I looked around the cellar, that bad feeling I had in Toulouse pounced on me like an angry, errant ghost. I crossed the room to the crate Tam had been going through and brushed my fingers over the metal receiver of my SMG. Maybe I thought it was an iron charm that warded off malicious spirits, or maybe I hoped the prospect of violence would be therapeutic. Either way, it didn’t work.
So much for magic.
-------------
I left the Blizzard in the crate. I didn’t want to get Gibson while waving a gun around. I went upstairs, and as I opened the door into the García’s apartment, a bad case of guilt hit me. The clutter and bustle of life was everywhere, but the place had the shocked vacancy of abrupt interruption. I was like a thief walking through the stillness of their home.
This was our fault. If we hadn’t brought Gibson, they’d still be here, happy and content. The image of the two of them in an interrogation cell reared up and kicked me in the stomach. I shook it away, but for all intents and purposes, we’d just trashed their life here.
I found the boy in the hall near one of the back bedrooms standing in the doorway like he’d been waiting for me. He looked thinner, smaller in his jumpsuit, and his hair was damp and slicked back out of his face as if Carmen had made a last-minute effort to neaten him up. His green eyes had a fevered shine to them that was even brighter against his pale skin. He watched me as I approached. I tried on a smile.
“Is it time to go?” he asked.
“Yes. Tam and I are taking you with us, to a new home.”
“But not with Carmen and Mr. Alejo?”
“No. Not with them,” I said. “Different people, some place new. They’ll be nice like them though.” I saw him looking at me as I’d lied. I changed the subject. “You OK? I mean we need to hurry, but if you want something to drink, some food, I’ll get—”
“No. I’m ready,” he said, He was still scrutinizing me, but now there was a sad little smile on his face. Guilt and more guilt. He slipped a slim, leather bound book into the side cargo pocket of his pants. An old printed copy of the New Testament. Great, I thought, now I’ve got God pissed off at me too.
“You sure?” I said.
“Yes.”
“We’ve got to go downstairs and meet Tam.”
Gibson nodded and started past me toward the cellar. I turned and kept my head down to hide my expression, working my way back through the house toward the kitchen.
My hand was on the doorknob when I remembered the fogger. I’d seen it in passing on a low table somewhere. If it really worked, Spanish Security wouldn’t have enough evidence to hang on the Garcías. “Wait here. I’ll be right back,” I said, and headed back down the hall.
Sure enough, the silver canister was perched on a coffee table in the living room. I had just picked it up when I caught a noise at the front door. A scrape, a muffled voice, the click of a door handle being tested.
Damn. I dropped into a crouch.
The door splintered open and the first pair of Guardia Civil uniforms rushed in fast and low. Guns up, they shouted out commands in Spanish. No translation needed. I raised my hands. A second pair of assaulters swept in right behind them, and the next thing I knew, I was facedown eating carpet with a knee in my neck, a Beretta 10mm in my face, and zip cuffs cinched on my wrists.
Hauled to my feet, I saw one of the troopers dragging Gibson into the room, the shoulder of his jumpsuit bunched up in a gloved fist. Through the floorboards, I could hear a crash and more yelling in the basement. No gunshots answered back. One of the Guardia Civil men started jabbering on his radio while the first pair swept through the rest of the house. Sirens howled out in the street.
We were busted.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE: SUSPECTS
Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs district. 6:48 p.m. Day Five.
Major Eames leaned back against the armored flank of the command track and let out a stuttered, pained breath.
“You’re sure you’re all right, Major?” Colonel Estevana asked. “I can take you back to the hospital.”
“No, I’m fine,” she lied and winced as she used her other hand to tug her wounded arm closer into her body. “Christ, but they wrapped this tight. I didn’t want it in my way. That didn’t mean I wanted them to cut the circulation.” She swallowed one of her Percs with a swig of bitter coffee and finished strapping up her tactical vest.
“Dr. Rodidos says if you keep at this, you could lose that arm completely.” The colonel looked worried.
“My guess is it’s a loss anyway. I’d rather have a working prosthetic than a broken original. How long will it take us to get to Central?”
“Traffic control is clearing a hole for us, but in these we’re still a good thirty-five minutes out. I can call for a chopper if you want, but that’ll take another twenty.”
“No. The tracks are fine. What’s the status on the García pickup?”
The Spanish soldier picked up the comm-set and began speaking in rapid Spanish, listening to the responses. He looked up after a moment. “Two teams have secured the premises, but they say the suspect wasn’t present.”
“They roust the right address?”
“Of course they did, Major. The team leader says they swept the entire place but there’s no sign of him.” The radio squawked again. “He reports they did find what looks like a large cache of weapons and equipment in a basement directly below the suspect’s apartment.”
“What kind of weapons and equipment?” she asked slowly.
The colonel spoke again then translated the answer. “He doesn’t know for sure. They haven’t gone through most of it. Seems to be old, but in good shape.” There was ano
ther static filled exchange before the colonel spoke up again. “He also says there were three civilians present when they entered the apartment. No IDs on any of them.”
Major Eames snorted. “Who? Unlucky neighbors?”
“He doesn’t know. They don’t scan. He says they aren’t chipped.”
“What?” Major Eames sat up. “Aren’t chipped? He snapped any video? DNA sample them?”
The colonel translated Major Eames’ questions again. “Not yet. He’s detained them pending further orders. He says there are three males: two adults and a boy. The men are definite military types. They were geared up, and it looked like they were on their way out.”
Major Eames gripped the colonel’s sleeve with her good hand. “The boy, what’s his description?”
“Small. About nine or ten years old, with dark hair and green eyes. Looks sick.”
“Jesus H. Christ! It can’t be,” she said in awe. “Tell the team leader to hold off on the pictures and bio-samples. I want those suspects brought straight to your station now. We’ll do a thorough DNA profile there and check for gene matches. We might have just hit the lottery.”
“I’m sorry, what? How?”
Major Eames stared at the colonel. “Damned if I know. Leave a unit to secure the place, but I want him to bring those three back personally. He’s to run over anything that gets in his way. And get a tech team at that location five minutes ago. Are there any other units in the area?”
The colonel looked puzzled. “Yes, several but—”
“Get them there now. I want that neighborhood sealed off. And put an escort on that van. Make sure it gets back to Precinct. I’m not taking any chances.”
“Chances on what, Major?”
“My ten million to one odds going bad.” She pounded on the side of the track and stepped toward the rear ramp. “Now get this heap moving.”
As the hatch clanged shut, the air turned heavy. Deep thunder rolled out of the southern horizon, and a cold drizzle began to fall. The storm was unfolding in the lowering gray skies.
------------
Tam and I sat with Gibson in the back of the police van out on the street in front of the alley. The tempo of raindrops was picking up on the metal roof, and somewhere far off, I heard thunder crack and rumble. The storm was kicking into gear.
The back doors were still open and the Guardia Civil sergeant was standing outside jabbering away on his radio. Every sentence or two, he’d peer in, scrutinizing the three of us, and it seemed he was answering questions, growing more attentive every second. Someone higher up the police food chain was bending his ear and had taken a definite interest in us.
I looked over at Tam. “I think we just made Spain’s security database.”
“They haven’t sampled us yet,” Tam said, and just then one of the other troopers walked up to the van with the ID kit.
“Spoke too soon.”
This situation was morphing into a right huge cluster in record time. First the Hester character and now this: if Spain got our pictures, prints and DNA on file, we were well and truly hosed. We’d never run ops for anyone again—if we lucky enough to see the outside of a prison cell that is.
The trooper was climbing in with us when the sergeant interrupted with a curt order. He stepped down and looked questioningly at his commander. The sergeant gestured impatiently and called out to two of the others, who came over at a jog. He issued more orders, the troopers peeling off one by one, and waved his clenched fist in a circle above his head. The van’s engines started up. We were going for a ride.
As the rear doors slammed shut, Gibson piped up. “Are these the new friends I was supposed to meet?” I swore I saw a little grin flit across his face.
“You’re funny. No, we weren’t planning on meeting these guys,” I answered.
“I didn’t think so.”
With that, the interior light went dim and the van lurched into motion. The three of us sat swaying on the metal benches as it gained speed down the street.
“So much for our ocean cruise,” I said to Tam. He just shrugged and leaned back with his eyes shut. I fixed my gaze on Gibson and tried to think.
The thing about being taken prisoner is that if you want to escape, you have to take your shot in the early stages because the further up the chain you go, the tighter security becomes, and your chances get trampled like pilgrims on hajj.
The assaulters had kicked in the doors so fast neither Tam nor I had a chance to stash anything useful. And if things were this miserable in the first stage, I wasn’t too optimistic about any chances later on. I tried to console myself by thinking at least the rest of them got away. Poet would know enough to get the Triplets, Doc and the Garcías back to Belfast. Jaithirth and Dengler could get them work with a new team. Sure as not, they’d bounce them over to Black Friar and help them keep their edge. I tried to imagine them working with someone else, but I cut that thought short. It was too depressing to consider.
I looked around morosely in the bad light, then leaned back and closed my eyes too. Yep, this was one of those moments when slashing your wrists actually seems like a reasonable solution. You can plan for capture in your mind a hundred different times in a hundred different ways, but it’s still a kick in the kidneys when it comes. Most everyone says they’re never going to talk, that they’d die before they spill their guts, but it’s not true. Training, preparation, deep conditioning for resistance, but in the end it’s all hollow. Everyone talks—it’s only a matter of when.
Whether you’re talking straight up old-school physical torture, fancy mind games and deprivation, or the latest in chemical and physiological interrogation technology, it’s only a question of how long you can stall them and how badly you want to suffer. And depending on where you were and who nabbed you, you could face any or all of the above options. Eventually, you’ll tell them anything they want to know and more.
All of us at Eshu International had agreed a long time ago that if anybody was caught, we’d stall as long as we could to give the rest of us a chance to escape and evade. Tam and I had been trained, and the Triplets were inured to resist. All of us had rehearsed cover stories. They were emotional and realistic, so that when we ‘broke’, it would seem authentic and throw any pursuit on a false trail. That would at least buy a little time for whoever survived.
I looked over at Gibson, who despite his fever was taking the experience in with an eager curiosity. He had his own problems, but at least they wouldn’t touch him. I’d be lucky to get a cell with plumbing.
We’d been traveling some five, maybe seven minutes, with sirens warbling constantly, and I could feel the spurt and stop as the Spanish police negotiated sprawl traffic. Suddenly, the sirens barked twice and there were shouts and muffled voices coming through the front wall. The driver was leaning on the horn when we stopped short.
“Traffic jam?” I whispered.
“Could be, but why isn’t their traffic control clearing a path?” Tam was interrupted by the sound of gunfire. “Shit! Get down!”
I fell onto the grimy metal floor and curled up below the bench. Tam urged Gibson down next to me.
“Bet that’s not on their schedule,” Tam said.
“Triplets?” I asked.
“Dunno. Sounded old, heavy and slow. Listen.”
Sure enough, the deep hammering sound of an assault rifle wafted through the armored walls of the van. “Cover him.” Tam nodded at Gibson, and I had him lay down flat on the grated floor. I knelt over him, shielding him as best I could.
The gunfire outside grew louder, closer. Suddenly, I heard a second and third weapon join in. The volume of fire was definitely rising, and a neat line of indents materialized on the sidewall of the van.
“I hate it when this happens,” Tam said. “Stay down!”
There were frantic shouts, and the burp of small-caliber SMG fire from the cab. The engine roared and the van accelerated briefly, swerving to the right, only to smash to a halt. The three of us sl
ammed into the forward wall, tangling up in a heap on the floor. I was wedged under a bench, stuck with my cuffed hands behind my back. Two more rows of pockmarks appeared across the metal wall.
“Gah! If this is the Triplets,” Tam said. “I’m going to beat them with a stick.”
I heard one of the troopers in the cab yelling, screaming some Spanish phrase over and over. I felt the vehicle start forward, but then came the crump of grenades and our van flipped onto its side. We lay there, dazed, as smoke started seeping into the back with us.
“This is not good,” I coughed.
“I didn’t think so,” I heard Gibson say.
“Whoever it is, we need to be ready to move.” Tam had gone all crisp and businesslike. “Gibson, when I say go, I want you to stay with Jace and run as fast as you can. You understand me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We’re going to get out of here.”
The three of us were untangling ourselves, struggling to sit upright, when a sharp burst of auto fire went off right outside the cab. We froze and everything fell quiet. Acrid smoke and tension filled the compartment as we all watched the back doors and waited. The seconds started dragging. Still nothing moved. Gibson muffled a cough, and we could hear the muted cacophony of rainfall, car horns and approaching sirens.
“Now would be a good time,” Tam said, and as he spoke, one of the doors wrenched open with a savage jerk. The jumble of slick wet roadway and wrecked cars was framed in the gray half-light of the sidelong doorframe. I was waiting to hear Poet’s voice, or see one of the Triplets reaching in.
Suddenly a head popped into view. It was a woman’s head, looking in at us. The face was familiar. Then I saw her eyes: it was the woman from the mosque.
“Not quite who I was expecting,” I heard Tam say.
Running Black (Eshu International Book 1) Page 24