Target Zero

by Jack Mars

  As the two men grappled, Maya crawled away desperately on her hands and knees, toward the kitchen. She used a stool to pull herself to her feet—her limbs still felt shaky and weak with the fear of having a knife at her throat again. She grabbed her cell phone from the counter.

  Emergency plan. Text Dad. Call the police. Her thumbs trembled as she replied to her dad’s text message, the one from the unknown phone number. Reply here if you need to reach me , it had said. So she did.

  Help

  She hit send. Then she opened her keypad and dialed 9-1…

  The assailant lunged toward her and swiped an arm. The cell phone flew violently from her hands and clattered to the floor. In that instant, she looked up and got the first good look at him since he had slipped into their house. He was lean, his face angular, his cheeks shaved smooth. He bled from a split lip. His hair was dark and cut close to the scalp. But most unsettling were his eyes, a deep, vibrant green that was simultaneously wild and animalistic.

  He snatched up the cell phone and shoved it into his own pocket.

  Behind him, Mr. Thompson struggled to get up. He was on his hands and knees on the kitchen tile, his head bent low and a ribbon of bloody spittle hanging from his lips.

  Maya breathed hard, not daring to move. The assailant did not seem to be in any rush; he strode to the foyer and retrieved the Smith & Wesson, tucking it into the back of his jeans. Then he picked up his curved hunting knife, the one he had pressed to Maya’s throat, and stood over Thompson.

  “My job,” he said softly, staring directly at Maya, “was more than just assassin. It was also messenger. I will show you how I sent messages. You will watch, and this way you will know that I’m serious.”

  “Please, don’t…” Her voice was hushed, practically a whisper.

  The assassin rolled Thompson over with a swift kick from his boot. The old man grunted and lurched onto his back. One eye was swollen half-shut, and blood eked from his nose.

  Maya clamped a hand over her mouth. He’s going to kill Mr. Thompson. I have to do something. I have to…

  “Maya.” Thompson grunted again in pain. “Go.”

  The assailant straddled Thompson. He brought the knife up in both hands, and then slammed it downward.

  Thompson’s hand flew upward to meet it. The knife sank into his palm and out the other side. He let loose a guttural scream, but he held the knife, pushing against it with both his pierced hand and his other. The assassin gritted his teeth and leaned into the knife, pushing as hard as he could. His body jerked as he rocked onto the knife, heaving it forward inch by inch, as feral gasps and growls escaped his throat like some sort of wild beast.

  “Go!” Thompson bellowed, loud enough to jar Maya into action. She jumped up and sprinted past them, into the foyer and to the stairs. She paused for a moment, and then slipped her hand into the pocket of her dad’s bomber jacket that hung near the door.

  It came out again holding a black pistol. Her hand shook. She had never held a gun before, and it terrified her.

  In the foyer behind her the assassin leaned his body weight onto the knife, the tip of which was positioned directly over Mr. Thompson’s heart. The older man’s strength was failing him. If she did nothing, he would be dead in moments.

  Maya couldn’t leave him to die.

  There was no time to examine the gun or check if it was loaded. Instead she grabbed the barrel in her fist and brought the hilt swiftly down across the back of the assassin’s head. The dull smack of steel against bone resonated up her arm, turning her stomach as the assassin grunted and fell aside.

  “I told you to go!” Thompson struggled to get up on his elbows, the knife still pierced through his hand. He coughed and blood stained his lips. “Get your sister—”

  The assassin sat up again just as quickly as he’d fallen. His face was bright red and snarling as he flung out an arm and backhanded Maya across the mouth. Sharp pain stung at her lips and she nearly fell over. The assailant tried to climb to his feet, but Mr. Thompson managed to find a surge of strength and wrapped him from behind, around the waist, yanking him back down to the ground.

  The two men grappled on the floor, smearing blood across the tile. Maya could only watch the tangled fray of limbs, feet kicking, fists flying. From the melee came only one word, in Thompson’s raspy, gravelly voice.

  “Sara!” he cried.

  Sara. Keep her safe. Maya forced her legs to move, to get up. Her feet pounded the stairs as the two men grunted and gasped from the kitchen.

  Her sister was awake, sitting up wide-eyed in bed as Maya charged into her bedroom. “I heard banging and shouting…” She saw the black pistol in her sister’s hand and gasped. “What’s going on?”

  “Sara, listen to me.” Maya knelt at the bedside. “Someone is in the house. You need to do as I say, no matter what. Okay?”

  Her little sister’s eyes immediately welled with tears and her lip trembled, but she nodded quickly. Their father, overprotective as he tended to be, had installed an escape ladder on a window in each of their rooms. It was two lengths of twenty-five-foot chains with rungs between them that unfurled into a ladder in the case of a fire or other emergency. They could get down it, run to the street, make a lot of noise…

  Maya hurried to the doorway and listened. She heard the grunts of effort from both men downstairs. Then a deep throaty shout—no, two of them.

  Then it stopped. Maya froze, listening as intently as she could. Someone panted, breathing hard from the exertion.

  She couldn’t hesitate and take the chance that it wasn’t Thompson. She yanked the window open and pushed the rolled fire escape ladder out. It unfurled with a clatter, the far end of it thudding against the ground in the backyard.

  Steady footfalls on the stairs reached her ears and she froze again. If it was Thompson, he would have called to us. Told us it was safe. She couldn’t take that chance. If it was the assassin, they didn’t have time to both make an escape out the window.

  “Sara,” she whispered quickly. “I want you to get in your closet. I’m going to draw him away from you. As soon as you’re able, you run downstairs and you get to the panic room. Understand?”

  “Maya, don’t go—”

  “You don’t wait for me. You lock the door behind you, and you call the police. Now go. Go!” She practically shoved her sister off the bed. Sara scurried to the closet and pulled the door shut behind her.

  Maya gripped the gun in her fist and hid herself between the open bedroom door and the wall. She barely squeezed behind it in time; a second later, the assassin stepped into the bedroom. She heard his soft boots against the carpet as he crossed to the window.

  She dared to glance around the edge of the door. The assassin stuck his head out the window, looking out over the yard for any signs of the girls. In his fist was the knife, its blade awash in blood. Her stomach churned at the sight of it.

  Mr. Thompson… His last words had been to her—for her to save her sister. Maya stepped out from behind the door and ran out of the bedroom, intentionally slapping her feet against the hardwood floor of the hall.

  The assassin gave chase, but she had a lead. She ran past her own bedroom and into her father’s, slamming the door shut behind her. She quickly looked over the gun in her hands; there was a safety on it somewhere, and her father was the type that would keep it on. She found it, a small black button just above the trigger, and pressed it.

  The knob turned slowly and the door swung inward, the assassin standing in the frame. He blinked twice, very nearly an expression of surprise, to find himself face to face with the barrel of a Glock.

  Then he smirked. “Do you know how to use that?”

  Both her hands trembled, wrapped around the pistol. “If you know who my father is, then you know I do.”

  Over his shoulder, Maya saw Sara slip quietly down the stairs. The younger girl hesitated for just a moment, her mouth agape as she saw her sister with the assailant at gunpoint, but she did as Maya as
ked and hurried down the stairs. Her bare feet barely made a sound against them.

  “I had a feeling I might die here today,” said the assassin. “But at your hand? That would be… unexpected.”

  They both heard a small shriek of terror from downstairs.

  Maya had forgotten to warn her sister about what she might see down there.

  The assassin did not take his eyes from her. “A diversion? Well done. But you wouldn’t need it if you were going to kill me.”

  Do it , she told herself. Pull the trigger. Her teeth chattered nervously. She suddenly felt very cold. This man killed Thompson. He came here to kill your dad. He threatened your sister. He held a knife to your throat.

  Maya squeezed her eyes closed and then squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  Her mouth fell open in utter disbelief. She had taken the safety off, she was sure of it…

  “You have to cock it,” he told her. He seemed amused. “This top slide, right here.” He pointed, reaching out and touching the gun. “Go ahead. Pull it back.”

  Maya took a quick step backward, away from him, and yanked back on the top slide. It barely moved; it was difficult to pull. She took another step back, desperately trying to cock the gun.

  The assassin stepped forward. “I suppose not even Kent Steele would leave one in the chamber when his young girls could find it.”

  Please , she pleaded with the gun. Please work. She struggled and tugged, straining with the effort, until there was a solid click as a bullet slid into the chamber. As she raised the pistol again, the assailant brought one hand up and easily snapped it from her grip.

  “You have spirit. You’re certainly his daughter.” Quick as a flash, faster than she could even react, he brought a fist careening into the side of her head. His knuckles caught just behind her jaw. She felt the impact, but no pain, as stars swam in her vision.

  Maya was unconscious before she hit the carpet.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Reid drove the SUV slowly along the wide asphalt of the Marseille Fos Port. The industrial seaport was an enormous spread of cranes, dry docks, silos, storage facilities, and stacks upon stacks of colorful cargo containers. Despite being closed by the government, there was still a surprising amount of activity as workers unloaded freight from docked vessels and piloted cranes to slowly shift the enormous steel shipping containers from ships to stacks.

  He parked between two squat beige silos and turned off the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition. Not more than a hundred yards past the windshield was the storage facility that had once belonged to Khalil Oil, a rectangular brick structure with partitioned windows about halfway up the walls. A wide banner over a pair of garage-door bays announced that the building was for lease in both French and English.

  “Try Maria on the radio,” he told the doctor.

  Barnard pressed a finger to his ear. “Agent Johansson? Agent Watson? Can anyone hear me?” He turned to Reid. “Nothing.”

  Then they’re still at least two miles away, outside the radio’s range. “All right. Try to get her on the phone and get an ETA.” He reached for the door handle.

  “Wait, Agent Steele, you’re not seriously going to go in alone, are you?”

  Reid nodded. “If he’s in there, I’m not going to wait around for backup. Tell Maria to approach carefully and from the rear.”

  “I should come with you—”

  “No,” Reid told him. “You stay here. I don’t know what I’ll find in there, but keep an eye out and a window open. If I need you I’ll do what I can to signal you.”

  Barnard hesitated, but he nodded. “Godspeed, Agent Steele.”

  Reid closed the door and headed straight for the storage facility. If anyone was looking they would clearly see him approaching, his hands in his jacket pocket, trying to look as casual as possible while striding toward the entrance, but there was no way for him to make a furtive approach. The area around the facility was wide open.

  His heart rate sped up as he got closer. It’ll be here , he thought. Khalil and the virus. He hadn’t counted on this. He didn’t plan for it. He thought Claudette Minot would be the end of the line for us.

  He reached the entrance, a door on the southwest corner of the building, and paused to draw his Glock 19. There were no windows at a height that he could use to see inside. He would be entering blind.

  Reid tried the knob. It was unlocked. He knew that wasn’t a good sign.

  He knew that he should at least wait for Watson and Maria, if not Baraf’s agents too.

  He thought of his girls back home. He hadn’t even been gone for two full days but already it felt like a week. He missed them dearly, and he would do anything to keep them safe. If there was even a chance that he could stop the virus from reaching the shores of the United States, he would do it without a second thought.

  He pushed the door open and stepped inside the warehouse, his gun level in his right hand.

  The empty storage facility was huge and cavernous, the concrete floors swept clean and wide, round steel columns supporting the ceiling about thirty feet above his head. It was dim inside; the only light came from the partitioned windows above him, angled to reduce the amount of sunlight.

  He stepped carefully, leading with his gun. His heart slowed, but his anxiety did not. The place appeared to be empty. There was no one and nothing here.

  Still he crossed the floor clear to the other side, just to be sure. As he reached the opposite entrance facing the harbor, a voice rang out, clear and male and echoing in the empty space.

  “Are you alone?” the voice asked. He spoke English, but his accent was clearly Middle Eastern—in fact, Syrian.

  Reid spun, tracking the barrel left and right, but he saw no one. The columns. It was the only hiding place in the building. There were eight of them in all, and he had no idea where the voice had come from. He stepped as silently as possible to his right so that he could see around the four on the western side of the building.

  “Lower the gun, please.” The voice was surprisingly gentle, calm even.

  “Show yourself,” Reid demanded. “Hands on your head.”

  Slowly an arm snaked out from behind one of the western columns, the second in the row. Brown fingers curled around an object.

  A cell phone. With the thumb on the green send button.

  Reid knew immediately what it meant. His glance flitted up and down, but he saw no wires, no bombs. Where then?

  “Drop it,” Reid commanded. “And come out.”

  “Are you alone?” the voice asked again.

  Reid scoffed in frustration. “In here, yes. But the building is surrounded. There are dozens outside. There’s nowhere to go.”

  “I’m going to step out,” said the man. “But you should know what this is, and what it means. If you pull the trigger I will press this button, and half of Marseille Fos will explode. The entire port is wired. Your friends outside will die.”

  “I won’t shoot,” Reid said. At least not until I know where the virus is. “But I’m not putting the gun down either.” Even if he was lying about the facility being surrounded, he couldn’t call the man’s bluff. There were innocent workers on the dock, not to mention Dr. Barnard. Maria and Watson would arrive shortly. Interpol agents were on their way.

  The figure stepped out from behind the column. He was Syrian, with smooth features and a dark, neatly trimmed beard on his cheeks. He wore a clean beige suit with a red tie.

  The man was not at all what Reid had expected. He thought he would find an angry, militant, bearded man in a taqiyah or turban, shouting about the glory of Allah and the death of infidels. The man standing before him looked as if he had just walked out of a corporate shareholders meeting. He looked far more like the son of a wealthy oil magnate than a holy man.

  Yet his appearance made him no less dangerous.

  “Assad ibn Khalil,” Reid said slowly.

  Khalil’s soft gaze glinted as he shook his head. �
�No longer. These days, I go by Imam—”

  “You’re no Imam,” Reid interrupted. “You’re a con man. You exploit weak people to carry out your will.” Reid had a clear shot; at this range he could bury a bullet in Khalil’s skull before he heard the cap explode. But anything less than a kill-shot would risk him detonating the bombs, and Reid needed to know where the virus was.

  “Not my will. The will of Allah, praise be unto Him,” Khalil said plainly. “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

  “They call me Agent Zero,” Reid told him. He took a slow, careful step, almost imperceptibly sliding his left foot forward.

  Khalil’s lips curled into a smirk. “The Agent Zero? Well! It is an honor. I’ve heard your name whispered in both reverence and terror.” He looked Reid up and down. “Though I have to say, I was expecting more.”

  That’s enough small talk. “Where’s the virus?” Reid demanded.

  Khalil’s eyes flitted left and right. “You came alone, didn’t you, Agent Zero? I don’t believe the building is surrounded at all. From what I’ve heard, you are very much the lone-wolf type.”

  “Where is the virus?” Reid shouted. His grip tightened around the Glock.

  “Did you not find her?” Khalil asked, trying to sound innocent.

  “We did. Claudette Minot is dead.”

  Khalil shook his head. “Shame. She was such a lovely, loyal girl.”

  “She died confused and alone,” Reid said forcefully. “Carrying an empty box.”

  “She died for a great and noble cause,” Khalil countered, “in the service of the one true Lord—”

  “Enough,” Reid interrupted. “I know why you’re really doing this. This is revenge, isn’t it? Your family’s company was taken by force. Your father was imprisoned for two years. There is no jihad; just your half-baked revenge plot against the wrong people.”

  Khalil smirked. Despite the dim light of the warehouse, his eyes gleamed. “Is that what you believe, Agent Zero? The narrative you have invented for me? You know nothing. I never wanted anything from them. My family’s greed and opulence sickened me…”