The Widow's Strike: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

  Jennifer cut a much better figure after a trip to a beauty salon for a style and color. Now with a short head of brown hair, all it took was a pair of nonprescription glasses and a pantsuit, and she really did blend in. The coffee shop advertised free Wi-Fi, so she’d purchased a cheap laptop to complete the deception.

  I ordered lunch and was thinking about bringing Jennifer down the block to do the same when my phone vibrated. It was Jennifer, and I was sure she was going to ask for a break. I was wrong.

  Without preamble, she said, “It’s the general. He’s walking up Forty-Fifth right now.”

  I forgot my sandwich. “By himself?”

  “Yeah. No carrier with him.”

  But she’s close. Has to be close.

  My phone vibrated again with another call. I looked at the screen, then said, “Gotta go. Kurt’s calling on the other line. Keep eyes on to confirm or deny he goes into the hotel. I’ll call back in a second.”

  I switched over, a little worried about what Kurt would say, but I had known the call was coming sooner or later. “Hey, sir. Listen, I’ve got eyes on Malik. I need to get a team to my location ASAP.”

  He said, “In Manhattan?”

  “Yeah . . . in Manhattan. You tracked our Taskforce phones?”

  In my heart, I knew that was going to happen. In fact, wanted it to happen to leverage a quicker turnaround getting a team or law enforcement on site, but it still was disconcerting.

  “I did. Pike—”

  I cut him off before he went into some diatribe about following orders and bringing Jennifer in. “Sir, I need a Taskforce team on my trace right now. We can turn it over to FBI or NYPD later, but we’ve got to keep eyes on this guy. He’s the key to the entire mission. We let him go, we lose the carrier.”

  “Pike, listen, I’m not the only guy tracking you. There’s a team headed your way right now. You need to get rid of the Taskforce phone and get out.”

  What the hell is he talking about? “Give them my number. Tell them to call. I’ll leave Jennifer on site and conduct a linkup.”

  “Their target isn’t the general. It’s Jennifer. They’re locked on right now, probably listening to this call.”

  Jesus. “Why the hell did you do that? Call ’em off! Redirect them to the general. Come on, this is ridiculous. Jennifer isn’t sick.”

  “I know. Pike, I can’t call them off. I resigned as commander.”

  For a second, I was speechless, the words making absolutely no sense. It was like hearing someone say the earth was flat. Or the United States was responsible for 9/11. The Taskforce was Kurt Hale. He’d had the vision for it, fought to create it, and had been its only commander.

  I found my voice. “What happened?”

  “It’s too long to go into, but the Oversight Council needs an oversight council. You guys are the target. You need to get out right now.”

  “Can’t you get George to back off?”

  George Wolffe was the deputy commander and a personal friend of Kurt’s.

  “He quit as well. Blaine is interim commander.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Blaine Alexander was the officer responsible for Omega operations, meaning he showed up when it was time to execute a mission, after all the prep work had been done. He was a good man, but I knew he would just follow orders. Something of this magnitude was out of his league to question. The one thing he was very, very good at was the endgame. Hunting men.

  I said, “Sir, you gotta get back in there. Don’t leave me hanging. Quitting is the easy out.”

  He said, “I’ll do what I can. Ditch that phone and call me once you have another one.”

  I started to respond and saw a Taskforce member walk outside the glass door, looking at something in a backpack. Tracking me.

  63

  I hung up without another word, then powered down the phone and ripped out its battery, watching the Taskforce member like a hawk. He scratched his head and moved on down the street, still staring at whatever tracking device he’d brought.

  Someone is on Jennifer as well. I was in a catch-22. I couldn’t call her without getting this guy back on me, but if I didn’t, she was dead meat. I went to the glass door and glanced out. The tracker had continued down the street. I exited, knowing there were others around and that they knew me on sight. I prayed my improvised disguise would be enough to get me past.

  Walking away from the hotel and Jennifer, I turned the corner and stopped a man talking on a cell. “I’ve got an emergency. I need your phone.”

  He frowned at me and waved his arm, turning in a circle and still talking. I lightly slapped his head, causing him to pull the phone away and say, “What the hell is your problem?”

  I snatched the cell out of his hand and said, “I asked nicely.”

  He started shouting and I dialed Jennifer’s number, then held a finger in his face. He sputtered and began flapping his arms. Jennifer answered.

  I said, “Get out. Turn your phone off right now. We’re being tracked. Meet me at our linkup. Thirty minutes.”

  True to form, Jennifer assimilated everything I said and asked not a single question. I heard “Got it.” And she clicked off.

  I handed the man his phone back, saying, “Thanks.”

  He snatched it out of my hand and said, “You’re lucky I don’t kick your ass, MMA style.”

  I rolled my eyes and tried to walk away. Which apparently gave the guy some confidence. He grabbed my arm and said, “Where you running to?”

  I peeled his hand away and rotated it against the joint, bringing him to his knees, my eyes searching the crowd around me for real trouble. Seeing none, I focused back on him.

  “Give me the damn phone.”

  He squeaked and thrust it toward me. I took it, because I might actually need a cell phone in the next twenty minutes, and released his hand.

  “I’m walking away now. You stand up, and I’m going to knock you out.”

  He nodded.

  “This thing have Facebook on it?”

  He nodded again.

  “When I’m done, I’ll update your status with its location.”

  I hailed a cab and gave him directions. “Central Park Zoo, and don’t take the long way.”

  Before we’d started our operation, Jennifer and I had agreed on a last-ditch meeting site should anything go wrong. Nothing different from what I did back in the old days of patrolling the woods. Plan a point to rally if we got hit and anyone was separated. In this case, I wanted a space that was easily located and in a crowded, public area. I’d picked the Central Park Zoo gift shop.

  The cabby dropped me off at Fifth Avenue and East Sixty-Fourth, and I entered Central Park on the back side of the zoo. I stripped off the wig and spit out the cotton swelling my cheeks, looking for threats but seeing nothing but families. A map directed me to the “zootique” at the end of a paver-stone walkway, just past a building called the Arsenal.

  It was small, and I quickly saw that I’d beaten Jennifer. Or she’s been caught. I went outside and glanced left, toward the direction of the zoo entrance, wondering if I should wait for the thirty minutes we’d agreed upon or get my ass into the fight.

  I took four steps, and Jennifer came around the corner, glancing over her shoulder.

  Before I could say a word, she said, “Turbo saw me leave the café. His element followed me. They couldn’t do anything because I was in the open, but they’re right behind me.”

  Which means they’re boxing us in right now. Turbo was a Taskforce team leader with whom Jennifer and I had had a run-in in the past, while Jennifer was attending Taskforce Assessment and Selection. Well, it was a little bit more than that. Jennifer had dislocated the shoulder of Radcliffe, his 2IC, and I’d kicked Turbo’s ass after the event was over. It was the worst team we could have chasing us. We weren’t going to get a lot of love out of this surveillance.

  “Come on. Let’s get into the park. They won’t do anything inside with all the civilians around. We get them spread out,
trying to cover that terrain, and we can lose them.”

  We began walking through the zoo, headed to the exit leading into the park. I relayed everything I knew, which left Jennifer a little shocked.

  “Maybe I should turn myself in. They’re wasting time on me. If I’m gone, they’ll refocus on the general.”

  I said, “Screw that. Kurt Hale resigned over this, which means it’s something pretty damn bad.”

  We speed-walked down one of the myriad paths crisscrossing the park, winding around a statue of an Alaskan sled dog, crossing under a bridge, and going uphill into the mall proper.

  I saw a squad of police officers coming in from the west side and thought about going right over to them. Getting them involved just to keep the Taskforce team at bay. They would never risk compromise by a domestic operation in front of law enforcement.

  We reached an outdoor amphitheater and I saw another squad, this time wearing SWAT gear, talking to two police officers mounted on horses. The sight caused my first trickle of alarm. They’re looking for someone.

  It couldn’t be us. It had to be a coincidence. But I hadn’t seen a single Taskforce member. They should have been around us in a surveillance box. Unless they pulled off.

  I stopped at a park bench and took out the phone I’d stolen, telling Jennifer to keep an eye on the cops. I initiated Google Maps and brought up Central Park, orienting myself, now looking for an escape route. Something that allowed taxis. The park was perfect for losing foot surveillance that was more concerned about compromise than stopping us, but it was a trap if somehow the Taskforce had brought the full power of law enforcement to bear.

  Straight ahead, past the amphitheater, was Terrace Drive, which connected to Fifth Avenue to the right and Central Park West to the left. Hopefully, we could snag a taxi cutting through. Jennifer pulled my arm.

  “Mounted police are eyeing us.”

  I saw they had separated from the SWAT guys and were meandering south, one looking our way, talking into a radio, the other studying a piece of paper. A picture.

  “Come on. Walk slow enough to not draw attention.”

  I was kicking myself for ditching the wig, but hopefully Jennifer’s new look would eliminate us as suspects. She appeared nothing like whatever photo they had.

  We passed the amphitheater and the SWAT guys started moving our way. One said, “Sir, sir. Hold up please.”

  I ignored him.

  I said, “You think you can outrun these cops?”

  Jennifer’s eyes widened, but she said, “Yeah, look at the kit they have on.”

  “Get ready. We go straight ahead full bore, outdistance them, then cut out of the park before they can radio a search pattern. We get separated, we’ll meet at Starbucks in Grand Central Terminal. If I don’t show in two hours, get out and call Kurt. Get a status from him. Reassess and go from there.”

  Jennifer reached down and pulled off the sensible office shoes she’d purchased, saying, “Is he on our side?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  The SWAT guys started walking toward us in a group, the mounted cops wheeling around. I heard one more shout and figured the game was up. No sense letting them get any closer.

  “Go!”

  Jennifer broke like a cheetah coming out of the grass, her long legs churning across the ground. Following right behind her, I saw the mounted officers spur their horses into a gallop, closing the distance. Shit. Can’t outrun that.

  I saw Terrace Drive to our front, a set of stairs leading under it. I shouted, “Down! Go down the stairs. Lose the horses!”

  An NYPD van screeched to a halt on the bridge, more SWAT officers spilling out, all of them shouting.

  Jennifer hit the stairs taking them three at a time, bounding down almost out of control. We reached the bottom and I could see a fountain ahead on a wide-open concrete pad about the size of a football field, a lake on the far side of it. No cover at all. Bad choice.

  Three beat cops rounded the corner of the tunnel just as Jennifer hit the bottom. One held up his hands, shouting, “Stop!” Jennifer slid low and swiped his legs out from under him, then sprang back to her feet. The two to his right drew their pistols and I threw myself sideways into them in a body block. We tumbled to the ground, and I rolled off and kept running, seeing Jennifer at the end of the short tunnel. She broke into the open, then slammed into the pavement like she’d been poleaxed.

  Three SWAT officers closed on her, one holding a Taser and applying juice. Two more appeared from the other side of the tunnel, all of them armed with M4 assault rifles. They heard me coming and all brought their weapons up. One shouted, “Stop right there! Stop, stop, stop!”

  I skidded to a halt, not wanting some trigger-happy guy to squeeze, having no idea what they’d been told about whom they were hunting.

  I was forced to the ground and both of us were shackled. Getting jerked to our feet, we were led back up to the van. They opened the doors, and on the bench were Radcliffe and two other Taskforce members, all dressed like SWAT officers. He said, “We’ll take it from here.”

  The doors closed and we began moving. Radcliffe pulled out a syringe and said, “Pike, I knew when they said someone had gone bad, it was going to be you.”

  He plunged it in my thigh, and the world began to swim. The last thing I saw was the fear on Jennifer’s face.

  64

  Elina parked around the back of the hotel, hiding her car as deep in the lot as she could, right next to a Dumpster. She knew it would remain there until removed by the police, long after she was martyred. She locked the doors, then wondered why she’d bothered.

  She dragged her little carry-on through the lobby, seeing it filled with children running back and forth, evading haggard parents begging them to sit still. The scene made her smile, reminding her of her nephews, now long since dead.

  She told the receptionist her name and stated she had left her key in the room, locking herself out. Ignoring the usual stare at her hospital mask, she presented her passport before the woman asked for a room number she didn’t know. As had happened in Raleigh, North Carolina, the night before, the receptionist stated her room number to confirm, to which she simply nodded. Given the key, and now knowing the number, she went to her room.

  She knew this was the last hotel. The end of the line, as it were, but she couldn’t for the life of her see why her journey finished here, in Florida. The town was a small little tourist trap, crammed on a spit of land next to the ocean. Somewhat run-down, with shady-looking surf shops and a few neighborhood bar-and-grills, it wasn’t the place she would have chosen to unleash Pandora’s box. Driving in, the only thing she had seen that might be of interest was the Kennedy Space Center, but surely that would be better attacked by a conventional bomb. Why use a virus?

  She found her room with a do-not-disturb sign hanging from the knob. Unlocking it, she pulled in her bag and saw an envelope on the bed. She dropped the luggage and stared for a moment, realizing it held her fate. A small sheaf of paper, bone-white, patiently waiting.

  She opened it and found tickets for a cruise leaving the next day. Included were instructions for catching a shuttle to the port, the itinerary of the ship, the room number, the reservation number, and restrictions for what she could bring. Everything in it was innocuous, except for a sheet of paper with a date-time group for a meeting during the voyage. A specific place, with a specific agenda.

  She dropped the papers on the bed. So that’s it. I’m going to infect a ship full of people. She thought about the children playing in the lobby and knew they were waiting on the same cruise. Knew they were going to die.

  She took a shower, doing monotonous things to take her mind off of the mission and her part in it. Finishing, she lay on the bed watching the Weather Channel, still finding the children encroaching in her conscious thoughts. She left the room and went to the lobby bar.

  She ordered a bottle of water, taking her mask off to prevent drawing attention to herself, and watched the
lobby. A tall, obese man, wearing a sweatshirt with a Ron Jon Surf Shop logo and flip-flops that were too small for his feet, took a stool next to her, interrupting her thoughts. He didn’t seem to care and had clearly had a few drinks before sitting down.

  He said, “You taking the cruise tomorrow?”

  She nodded, desperately wanting to put on her mask. Afraid to speak.

  He said, “They X-ray the baggage now, just so you know. They claim it’s because of terrorism, but it’s really to find people bringing on booze. They charge an arm and a leg for that shit on the boat.” He leaned in and winked at her. “But I’ve got a way around it. I put my rum in Ziploc bags. Don’t show up on X-rays.”

  He gave a loud guffaw and slapped his knee, then, in a conspiratorial whisper, said, “You bringing on any booze?”

  She said, “No, I don’t drink alcohol.”

  His eyes scrunched up like he couldn’t assimilate the statement, a tinge of a smile on his face. “Don’t drink? What the hell are you going on a cruise for?”

  Despite herself, she smiled back. The man was disarming and clearly not a threat.

  She said, “Just a vacation.”

  He said, “You by yourself?”

  The question raised a warning. Now wary, wishing she hadn’t engaged him at all, she nodded.

  He pointed to a table with three other middle-aged men, all dressed like teenagers. “I’m with them, and we’re all by ourselves too.”

  He guffawed at his joke, waiting on her to join in. When she didn’t, his laughter petered out, but he remained in the game, not taking her silence as a hint. He said, “If you want to know how to get the best of this cruise, just let me know. I’m a cruising expert!”

  She slid off her stool and said, “I really have to get some sleep.”