Target Zero

by Jack Mars

  “What should I do?” Dr. Barnard asked.

  “You’re going to stay in the car until this is over,” Reid told him frankly.

  “Excuse me?” Barnard frowned. “Agent Steele, I assure you I have been trained with firearms, rapid intervention, strike-team protocol—”

  “Are you an agent?” Reid interrupted. “Or are you a doctor?”

  Barnard stared straight ahead, clearly unhappy but not arguing.

  Beside him, Maria’s fingers surreptitiously found Reid’s and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You ready to get back into this?” she asked quietly.

  He nodded. “Yeah. I am.” And it was true; his muscles were taut with anxious energy, craving a thrill, a chase, a release of adrenaline and endorphins. It should have scared him, how easy it was to settle back into his Kent Steele persona. But it didn’t; it excited him. He couldn’t help but wonder how he managed it before, when he had all of his memories. How did he go from being Professor Lawson, loving husband and father, to CIA Agent Kent Steele? Was it like flicking a switch? Was he able to leave the terror and bloodshed at the door? He had failed to do that after Davos; perhaps whatever part of him was able to keep up the subterfuge with his family was still locked away in his mind.

  “Radios on,” Watson said as they approached the hotel. “Keep the line of communication open.” He pulled the SUV into the roundabout that led to the valet service.

  The first three floors of the Athens Grand had been built to mimic ancient Greek architecture, with huge white Ionic columns supporting the stone awning over the hotel’s main entrance. Beyond that, another twelve floors stretched skyward in a simple gray high-rise, a bizarre but beautiful blend of contemporary and past, situated on the edge of the city proper.

  Watson parked the SUV just beyond the valet stand. “Barnard, keep the engine running and don’t let anyone move it. We’ll keep in contact.”

  The doctor murmured his assent, and the four agents climbed out of the car. A young parking attendant in a red vest chattered at them in unintelligible Greek—I guess I don’t know Greek , Reid mused—but they ignored him and hastily entered the hotel’s spacious white lobby.

  “Stairs.” Maria gestured towards a white door to the right of the bank of elevators and Carver followed her. She threw a glance over her shoulder at Reid. “See you soon.” She and Carver headed up to the fourth floor.

  Watson and Reid stood in front of an elevator, waiting for Maria and Carver to reach their position and scope it out. The two of them would look like an ordinary couple staying in the hotel; the four of them together might startle anyone paying too close attention.

  Reid’s foot bounced against the marble floor as they waited.

  “Nervous?” Watson asked casually.

  “Anxious,” Reid replied. “And… yeah, maybe a little nervous. For all we know, a potentially world-ending supply of mutated smallpox could be forty feet over our heads. Let’s make sure we play this cautiously, all right?”

  Watson scoffed lightly. “Agent Zero is telling me to play it cautiously?”

  Reid frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” Watson shrugged one shoulder. “Just ‘cautious’ isn’t usually your way.”

  This time it was Reid’s turn to scoff. Was that what this was about, Watson’s aloof attitude toward him? Because he didn’t care for the “Kent Steele way” of doing things?

  “I’ll remind you that I barely remember what ‘my way’ might be,” Reid told him. Although, he thought, despite not having his memories as Agent Zero, when things got rough his instincts tended to kick in—often with very bad results for the person on the receiving end.

  Maria’s voice suddenly came through the radio, directly into his earpiece. She spoke quietly, her words feathered with an edge of white noise. “Fourth floor,” she confirmed. “Hall is empty. We just passed four-oh-five. Door is closed. If anyone is in there, they’re silent. There’s an ice machine just around the corner where we can keep eyes on the stairs; we’ll wait there for you.”

  “Got it. Be there in a minute.” Reid pressed the up button, and both agents watched the red-lit display above the elevator as it descended to the ground floor.

  The doors opened and Reid stepped aside as five people got out, scattering in different directions. Agent Watson stepped forward, but Reid paused, his brow knitting in the center in a deep frown.

  Two of the people who disembarked from the elevator were men, dressed casually, walking slowly toward the exit. Their skin was an olive hue that might have been Greek. There was nothing to immediately suggest that there was anything amiss about them—except that they were speaking Arabic to each other, and Reid understood them as easily as if they had been speaking English.

  “It is taking too long,” the first man remarked to his companion as they brushed past Reid. “It should have been ready by now.”

  “Kent, let’s go,” Watson prodded, holding the elevator door.

  Reid held up a hand sharply and took a few quick steps after the men, just in time to overhear one’s words to the other.

  “Patience,” the man told his companion. “The Imam says today is the day.”

  The Imam.

  “It’s them,” Reid called to Watson. “The Syrians!”

  “What?” Watson stepped off the elevator, clearly confused. The two Arabic men heard him and spun quickly. Reid suddenly realized his mistake; he had been listening to an Arabic conversation, and he had unwittingly shouted to Watson in Arabic.

  The pair of Syrians wasted no time; they took off at a sprint toward the hotel’s exit. Reid gave chase, Watson not far behind him. A pair of British tourists stepped into Reid’s path as he ran, and he plowed into a hapless middle-aged man, sending him sprawling across the floor.

  “Sorry,” Reid grunted. Watson caught up to him and the two agents burst through the doors, just in time to see the Syrians climbing into a silver sports car. A young valet, the same one who had shouted at them upon their entrance, was lying on his back and holding his bleeding forehead.

  The sports car’s tires screeched loudly and it rocketed forward, the back end fishtailing around the roundabout and onto the street.

  It was them. There was no doubt in Reid’s mind as he leapt forward toward their waiting SUV.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Reid slid into the driver’s seat of the still-running car. Watson jumped in beside him.

  “Was that them?!” Dr. Barnard practically shouted from the back seat. He had witnessed the two men assault the valet and steal the sports car.

  “Yes,” Reid said breathlessly. “Buckle up.” He slammed the gas and the SUV lurched forward onto the city street, barely missing an oncoming car.

  “Jesus, Kent!” Watson shouted from beside him. “How do you know that for sure?”

  Reid swerved expertly in and out of traffic. The roads in this part of Athens were tight, two lanes wide and lined with storefronts and cafes. “They were speaking Arabic,” he said calmly. “They mentioned the Imam.”

  “Imam can mean a lot of things,” Watson countered. He gripped the handle over his door with white knuckles.

  “They ran, Watson! They stole a car!” Reid resisted the urge to shoot his partner a sidelong glare and focused on the road. He blew through a red light, inviting a slew of honks and Greek profanity.

  Where are they? They couldn’t have gotten too far ahead. The silver sports car the Syrians had hijacked could certainly outpace the SUV on the open road, but on the busy streets of Athens it would be more of a level field of play and come down to the more experienced driver.

  Reid kept his eyes on the road, not blinking, his hands expertly maneuvering the steering wheel smoothly. His heart was pounding harder than it had in a month, and his mind was racing with the possibility of losing the terrorists, but his hands—his hands were steady.

  You’ve done this before. Plenty of times. Again the familiar sensation crept into his mind; just like rea
lizing he could speak Arabic or speed-load a pistol clip, Kent Steele handled the SUV like a rally car driver. And he was not going to allow them to get away.

  Up ahead he caught a flash of silver as the sports car weaved in and out between lanes. “There you are,” Reid murmured. He jerked the wheel slightly to the right. The passenger side tires bounced up onto the sidewalk as he skirted around traffic. Passersby cried out and leapt aside, though he was careful of pedestrians.

  “Take it easy, Kent!” Watson scolded from the passenger seat. “This is an urban area!”

  Reid said nothing. The sports car had a good lead on them but the SUV had a better engine—a five-point-seven-liter Hemi, by the sound of it. If the Syrians wanted to lose them, they would have to find a highway or a stretch of road with no traffic.

  “Kent?” Maria’s voice crackled in his ear. “What’s going on? Where are you?”

  He had forgotten for a moment about Maria and Carver, still at the hotel and awaiting their arrival. He pressed a finger to his earpiece. “We’re in pursuit of a pair of Arabic men that jacked a car. They must have been coming down in the elevator as you were going up the stairs.”

  “Ten-four. Carver and I are going in to see what we can find in the room.”

  “Be careful,” Reid told her. “There might be more than just two.” Only static hissed in his ear. “Maria?” No response; they must have exceeded the two-mile capability of the radio.

  Not more than thirty yards ahead, Reid saw the back end of the silver sports car drifting sideways as they attempted a tight left turn. The light was changing, so Reid slammed the gas, jumping to nearly sixty. “Hold onto something!” He did not slow down as he approached the turn; instead, he yanked the emergency brake up as he jerked the wheel. The SUV slid sideways into the intersection and Reid counter-steered. He held his breath for a moment as the driver’s side wheels came off the road for a moment.

  “Christ, Kent!” Watson shouted.

  Then he straightened the steering wheel and the tires met ground again. The smell of burnt rubber filled his nostrils as he slammed the gas anew to catch up to the Syrians. Pedestrians scattered; he could hear their surprised cries even through the closed window and over the roar of the engine.

  His heart was pounding a mile a minute and adrenaline coursed through his veins. Reid had to fight to keep the grin off his lips. This was the hunt, what he missed most about being in the field. This was his runner’s high, his endorphin release, his drug of choice.

  Twice more the sports car turned wildly, trying to lose them, but the Arabic driver was not as skilled. The car’s tires skidded in protest, slowing them, and Kent’s expert driving closed the gap between them. Watson continued to protest from beside him, but Reid ignored it. Behind them, Barnard muttered quietly to himself, though at least once Reid could have sworn he heard the phrase “Please God…”

  Funny , he thought. I guess we all get a little religious when we think we’re going to die.

  They hit a straightaway with only tight alleys as turn options. Reid rode the line at sixty-five, praying that no one jumped out from the narrow side roads. The Syrians would have to try to turn again eventually; Reid had closed the gap to between thirty and forty feet from bumper to rear fender.

  “Good, that’s close enough,” Watson said breathlessly. “Let me get a license plate number, and… What the hell are you doing?!”

  Reid reached into his coat and unholstered his Glock 19, keeping the car at speed and driving with his right hand. Time to see if Bixby’s biometrics work , he thought as he rolled down the window.

  “Kent… just hold up a second…”

  Any moment now… He wrapped his hand around the Glock, with his thumb naturally positioned over the biometric pad. Something inside the gun clicked; the trigger lock sprang open.

  “Kent!” Watson barked angrily.

  The silver sports car careened to one side as the Syrian driver attempted a left turn. The driver’s side wheels came off the ground slightly. They were taking the turn too tight and too fast. Reid didn’t even try to follow into it.

  Instead he leveled the gun out the window, aimed, and fired off two shots.

  Barnard gasped from the back seat at the sharp report of the Glock. The first shot missed, but the second found a home in the rear tire. As rubber shredded, the sports car lost traction with the ground and rolled. Time seemed to slow as the vehicle flipped twice on its side, each impact with the road sending a sickening crunch echoing into the air. The car crashed into the storefront of a deli with a stupendous racket. Glass exploded outward. People on the street screamed and scattered as the sports car came to a sudden stop upside-down on its roof.

  Reid slammed the brakes and the SUV skidded sideways to a halt. Watson breathed hard beside him. He wasn’t sure if Barnard was breathing at all. Gun in hand, he jumped out of the car and headed toward the crashed car.

  Two Greeks emerged from the deli. A cursory glance told him they had only minor cuts and scrapes. “Go,” he told them in English. “Get clear.” They clearly understood his gesture, if not his words, and they did not have to be told twice.

  He kept the Glock pointed at the ground as a figure crawled from the wreckage—the driver, inching forward on his knees and one elbow. Blood ran down his face from a gash across his forehead, and his left arm was certainly broken. Even so he managed to pull himself from the crash and then carefully climbed to his feet. As soon as he was up, he stumbled and fell again, crying out in pain at his broken limb.

  “Stay on the ground,” Reid told him in Arabic. “Do not get up.”

  The Syrian glared at him furiously, a snarl on his lips. Despite the warning, he tried to rise again, cradling his broken arm with his good one. Reid saw a glint of metal as the man yanked a small gun from his jacket. Before Reid could even react, the Syrian fired off two shots.

  The man was disoriented, unstable, and the shots went wild. Reid leveled his gun, aiming at the Syrian’s shoulder, but another shot rang out. From behind him.

  The man’s body went rigid as the bullet hit center mass. Blood flowered from the Syrian’s chest as his heart emptied, and he crumbled to the ground.

  Agent Watson stood behind Reid, his pistol leveled. Watson had taken the shot. Reid had the Syrian dead to rights, about to disarm him, and Watson had put the man down.

  “Why did you do that?” he demanded angrily. “We could have gotten information out of him!”

  “Are you out of your damn mind?!” Watson shouted back. “He almost got the drop on you!”

  “I had him…” Reid argued.

  “Jesus, what part of ‘covert op’ do you not understand?” Watson slid his Glock back into the shoulder holster under his coat. “What if you had hit a pedestrian? What if one of his shots had gone through a window and hit a kid?”

  “What was I supposed to do?” Reid shouted back. “Let them get away?”

  “No, Kent. You were supposed to get close enough for me to get a license number, a make, and a model.” Watson lowered his voice. “Because then we could call it in and track the vehicle. It’s a new enough car to probably have GPS. We could have watched where they went and followed them.”

  Reid scoffed. “We don’t have time for that.”

  “Well, you may not remember this, but that’s what an intelligence agency does, Kent. We gather intelligence, and we act intelligently. Not… this .” He gestured to the dead man in the road, the overturned sports car, the destroyed deli storefront.

  Reid didn’t have a good response for that. He had simply acted out of instinct, and if he was being honest, the thrill of the chase took over. Stopping the Syrians was the only thing that mattered in the moment. And now the fact that he didn’t have a logical response to Watson’s rebuttal only made him angrier.

  “So that’s it then,” he said forcefully. “That’s your problem with me, isn’t it? That I do things a little differently than what you’re used to?”

  “A little differently.�
�� Watson chuckled bitterly. “Sure. Just a little differently. Good ol’ Ground Zero.” He approached Reid and lowered his voice to nearly a whisper. “And what if they had the virus on them, Kent? What then?”

  “They don’t.” Neither of the Syrians had been carrying anything out of the Athens Grand, he was sure of it.

  “All it would take is a vial,” Dr. Barnard said quietly. He too had gotten out of the SUV, still trembling slightly from the high-speed chase. “The tiniest amount could do untold damage.”

  Reid stared at the ground. Jesus , he thought, he’s right. He had been so intent to catch them that he had neglected to think clearly.

  “I’m going to go see if anyone’s hurt.” Watson sighed. “Search the body for ID or leads.”

  Watson hurried over to the broken storefront as Reid approached the dead Syrian. He rolled the man over and checked his pockets, finding only a wad of euros and a cell phone. No virus, thankfully. He took the findings, along with the man’s gun, and stowed them in the SUV.

  He turned his attention to the overturned sports car and knelt beside the passenger side. A face stared back, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. Reid winced; the second Syrian looked like he was barely into his twenties, and he hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt when they crashed. His body was upside down, head at an odd angle with the ceiling. The impact had broken his neck.

  Watson ushered two more people out of the deli, a woman and an older man—the latter of whom was presumably the proprietor, since he was wearing a white apron that was slightly spattered with blood. At the sight of civilians exiting the now-destroyed deli, Reid felt a deep pang of remorse and hurried over to make sure they were all right.

  “Superficial injuries, mostly,” Watson told him. “Nothing serious and no one killed. Luckily.”

  Even though Reid was thankful for that, he was certain he was going to hear about this.