by Jack Mars
“You knew me too.”
“But…” Reid turned the thought over in his mind like kneading dough. It seemed clear that Mitch wasn’t just an asset; he was CIA, and Reid was fairly certain that everything about his current identity, from his beard and hat to the gruff, grunting demeanor and even his name, was all just intrigue to hide his real identity.
Because a memory might spark in my mind. Because I might remember.
“But you don’t want me to remember,” he said.
“Some things are better left in the past,” Mitch said softly.
Reid wanted to press the issue. He wanted to remember as much as he could, but he knew better. After all, would he be honest about his identity to a relative stranger? Especially if he just wanted to help them?
They drove southwest for another ten minutes, doing ten over the speed limit and traveling in silence. Finally they pulled off the highway and eased down a long, tree-lined thoroughfare until they reached an access road and a sign for a place called Crosswind Airfield. It was comprised of little more than a squat office building, two narrow runways, and an open-air hangar that housed about a dozen or so small aircraft.
The lights were on, but Reid didn’t see any people. Instead of stopping the car at the office, Mitch circled it, around to the second runway behind the building.
Reid gaped in surprise. There was a plane waiting there, just as Mitch had said, obscured from the road by the office building—but it wasn’t just any plane.
“That’s a Cessna Citation.” Sitting before them was a nine-million-dollar business-class jet. Fifty-four-foot wingspan, top speed of five hundred sixty miles an hour.
“Mm-hmm.” Mitch seemed unimpressed.
“And the pilot?”
“Friend of mine,” Mitch said simply.
“A friend,” Reid murmured. This didn’t feel right at all, blindly trusting someone he didn’t know who refused to give up his identity. The Cessna, the drone, the Trans Am; Mitch watching his back, saving him three times now from bad situations—none of it felt right. Every instinct as an agent told him not to get on the plane.
“You know this is dangerous,” Reid said. “You know the kind of trouble this could bring you. I need to know why you’re doing all this for me.”
“Like John told you,” Mitch said gruffly. “Not doing it for you. Doing it for those girls.”
“You’re stepping way out of line for this.” Reid shook his head. “You feel that you owe me something, don’t you? Is this some sort of atonement?”
Mitch said nothing in response.
“All right. Then I’ll find my own way.” He didn’t trust it enough to put his faith in someone who couldn’t give him a straight answer. He reached for the door handle.
“Hold up, Zero.”
Reid paused, his hand on the door.
The mechanic took off his baseball cap and ran a hand over his matted brown hair. “Back then… not just two years ago, but even before that… I wasn’t exactly a good person. I did something stupid. Got in deep. Not only did you save my life, but you covered for me. You made it so I stayed out of H-6.”
Reid tried to evoke a memory, but nothing came to him out of Mitch’s vague explanation. No new memories sparked in his brain.
“I never got the chance to repay the favor, until now. But when John told me about the suppressor, I didn’t want you to remember.” Mitch pulled his hat back on and cleared his throat. “Because if you remembered who I was, our history, you might not trust me. Might not accept my help.”
Reid bit his lip. He didn’t know what to say, or even think. Mitch was admitting that he was some untrustworthy aspect of Kent Steele’s past, but at the same time he had proven himself beneficial and supportive. As an agent, his instinct was to mistrust, to avoid, to lie and to deceive.
As a father, he was grateful beyond words.
He reached into his pocket for the ID card that was stowed there. “Here. This is the driver’s license of William Johnson. He’s the crew supervisor at Port Jersey who’s been accepting bribes and allowing a group of men he calls ‘the Slavs’ to take girls out of the country by cargo ship. I don’t trust Riker as far as I can throw her. You personally make sure he gets what’s coming to him and we’ll call this favor even.”
Mitch took the ID and looked it over. “I will.”
“And whatever you can do to follow up in Nova Scotia, in Croatia…”
“We will.”
Reid nodded. “Thank you, Mitch.” He shook the mechanic’s hand. “And be careful. If the CIA knows I’m in on this then they might know about the drone, or find out about the plane.”
“I’ll be fine,” he grunted.
Reid reached again for the door handle and pushed it open. As he climbed out, a thought occurred to him. Mitch’s words ran through his head. Not only did you save my life, but you covered for me. I never got the chance to repay the favor, until now.
He bent at the waist and peered into the cab of the car. “And Watson? What was his angle on this? Why did he help me?” He couldn’t believe that it was merely Cartwright’s suggestion that spurred Watson into action.
Mitch didn’t look up. “That’s not for me to say. I hope you get the chance to ask him yourself.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too. Thanks again, Mitch.” He hitched his bag onto his shoulder and strode toward the waiting Cessna. As he approached, the entry ramp came down and a man stood in the open oval-shaped doorway—the pilot, Reid presumed. He was white, tall, with a square jaw, but that was about all Reid could tell. Despite the darkness outside he wore aviator sunglasses and a black baseball cap.
Reid ascended the stairs and held out his hand. “Thanks for your help,” he said. “I’m Reid—”
The pilot gave him a tight smile. “Nothing personal, but the less I know about you, the better.”
Reid nodded. “Understood.” He took a seat as the entry ramp closed again and the pilot retreated to the cockpit. In minutes they were in the air, the barely illuminated sports car below getting smaller by the second.
He was on his way, and he had a long flight ahead of him to figure out how he was going to bait and kill the man who took his girls.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The plane ride to Dubrovnik was excruciating, more than seven hours of anxiety and fretting and tortuous thoughts. Reid had tossed the burner so that the agency couldn’t track him, and now he had no method of outside communication. There was Wi-Fi on the Cessna, and a built-in console that could access the internet, but he didn’t dare try to contact anyone—least of all Maria, who was still considered to be in the field, or his other supposed ally within the CIA, Deputy Director Cartwright.
For a brief period, he had thought of Cartwright as someone in the agency that he could trust. But where was he now? What was he doing to help Reid’s girls? He had sent Watson, that much was true, but only because he feared what Kent Steele might do if left to his own devices.
Cartwright had the opportunity to show his true colors, but now that the CIA knew that Agent Zero was on the move, the deputy director had done nothing. He was a bureaucrat, nothing more. He was a middleman playing both sides while keeping himself safe, Reid was certain.
He was no better than Riker in Reid’s eyes. He had his chance to show a moral backbone and he folded.
Reid tried to doze, to steal what little sleep he could on the plane, but he couldn’t get comfortable and every time he closed his eyes horrible images swam in his vision. Instead he spent the time thinking, overthinking, pacing the aisle, splashing cold water on his face in the tiny bathroom, and thinking some more.
He desperately wished he knew what was happening out there. If Riker had sent a chopper, then she knew that Reid was no longer at the position they’d traced him to. Would she still keep her end of their deal?
You really think she’s going to do all that? That had been Mitch’s question. To find a couple of kids?
The more Reid thought about those w
ords, the more harrowing they became. Children went missing every day. Women, men, people of all ages were kidnapped, abducted, worse. How far would the CIA go to see two girls saved, regardless of who they belonged to?
He didn’t know the answer. But he felt very much alone, more than he ever had before.
There was one thing of which he was certain. Rais had not taken the girls to Croatia to elude Reid; he was baiting him, taunting him, forcing him onto unfamiliar terrain so that the assassin could have the upper hand.
Reid would have to bait him first. Send him an invitation that he wouldn’t be able to turn down. He had a few ideas about how to do it, but each of them required him to make Agent Zero’s presence known—and doing so could alert the CIA to his whereabouts.
That barely mattered now, he decided. He had come this far. He wasn’t about to back down or shirk away. Let them know where I am. I’ll lead them there myself.
At long last he couldn’t stand being so alone with his thoughts. Besides, he reasoned, they should nearly be there. He knocked twice on the cockpit door and it unlocked from the other side.
The pilot pulled off his headset. “ETA is about thirty minutes.”
Reid nodded and gestured to the empty copilot seat. “May I…?”
“Sure. Just no personal stuff. I’d prefer plausible deniability wherever possible.”
“Not a problem.” Reid settled into the chair, wondering who this pilot was that he would fly someone a third of the way around the world as a favor—or, perhaps more appropriately, who Mitch was that he might be owed such a favor.
For a moment they were both silent, the pilot handling the yoke and Reid watching. He scanned over the console, the dials, the levers… and despite his position, he nearly chuckled.
I know how to fly this plane. He’d never done it, or at least no memories sparked of him ever flying before, but he had the sensation of controls in his hands, bumping over turbulence, adjusting for altitude.
A simulator. I learned how to fly in a simulator. He made a mental note to file that information away for later use. It could come in handy.
“Any idea what’s going on down there?” Reid asked. “In Dubrovnik?”
The pilot shook his head without looking over. “Nope.”
Reid frowned. “Air traffic control should have said something if planes are being searched.” If there was a police presence, as he had asked of Riker, the pilot would be aware.
“I suppose now’s as good a time as any,” the pilot murmured. Then louder he said, “I’m not landing in Dubrovnik.”
“What?” A tense ball of panic formed in Reid’s throat. “But that’s where I need to be. That’s where we’re supposed to go…”
“That’s where you’re supposed to go,” the pilot corrected. “And you are. My flight path is to Montenegro, under the pretense of a private courier delivery. Landing in Dubrovnik would be too suspicious to anyone that might be paying attention. You’re going to have to jump.”
“Jump,” Reid repeated, stunned. “As in…?”
“Parachute,” the pilot finished. “Is that a problem? I was told you’re experienced.”
I’m going to have to jump out of a plane. The lump in Reid’s throat felt as if it swelled to the size of a tangerine. I’ve never done that before…
Yes, you have. Plenty of times. Feelings, images, flashed through his mind. Again, just like the realization that he could pilot a plane, no specific memory came back associated with it—only the knowledge that he could do it if he needed to.
And he needed to. It was for the girls. He reminded himself—whatever it takes.
“No,” Reid said. “Not a problem.”
“Good,” said the pilot. “I can get you within a mile of the airport, but not directly into their airspace. Our trajectory will take us just north of there, over the mountains. I’m told you need to find the cargo depot. It’s at the northern end of the airport.”
Reid nodded along, only half hearing the pilot’s words. He was going to have to jump out of an airplane.
“What about you?” he asked. “You won’t get far with your door open.”
“Not my first rodeo.” The pilot grinned. “I’ll decrease altitude, reduce airspeed, and get another sixty or seventy miles before I have to call it in. I’ll tell them a faulty latch forced the door open and I’ll make an emergency landing in Tivat.” He shrugged. “No big deal.”
“Sure.” No big deal to risk life and limb so I can get into Croatia without being spotted. “Um… thanks. For your help.”
“Don’t mention it, Zero,” the pilot said casually, both hands on the yoke.
Reid narrowed his eyes. He had the sneaking suspicion that this pilot might be another remnant of his past, someone he couldn’t remember—and perhaps, like Mitch, someone who didn’t want to be remembered.
You’ve made a lot of enemies, Cartwright had told him over the phone, shortly after he found his girls missing.
Apparently he had made a few friends, or at least allies, as well.
“ETA is twenty-five,” the pilot said, fitting the headset back over his ears. “You should get ready.”
“Right.” He rose from the seat to get ready to leap out of an airplane.
*
He secured the straps over his shoulders and tightened the nylon around each thigh before clipping the parachute over his chest in the front. He secured his duffel bag to his waist by yanking one of the handles free of the fabric, looping it through three belt loops, and tying it tight.
He was as ready as he could be—at least in the preparatory sense. His legs felt weak and his mind was reeling with the prospect of making the jump.
The pilot glanced over his shoulder from the open cockpit door. “Two minutes,” he announced. “After you do what you came here to do, you’ll be able to make it back all right?”
“I’ll find a way,” Reid told him. “Assuming I’m not dead or in prison.”
The pilot nodded solemnly, understanding that Reid wasn’t joking. “After my stop in Tivat, I’ll be in Montenegro for the next thirty-six hours, give or take. If you finish up here and can get there…” He handed Reid a white card with a handwritten phone number on it, but no name. “Give a call.”
“Thank you.” Reid tucked the card into his pocket.
“I have to secure the cockpit now,” the pilot told him. “Count to sixty, and then do it.” He pushed the cockpit door closed. Reid heard it lock from the opposite side.
This is insane, he told himself.
You can do this. You’ve done it before.
That doesn’t make it any easier.
He started counting aloud. “One, two, three…”
The altimeter in the cockpit had told him that they were at a cruising altitude of about twelve thousand feet.
“Eleven, twelve, thirteen…”
Most parachutes require about eight hundred to twelve hundred feet of free fall to open, his mind told him.
“Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five…”
At this height, your fall rate will be about a hundred and fifteen miles an hour.
“Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine…”
Minimum safe opening height is about two thousand feet.
“Forty-four, forty-five…”
Which means you’ll have just under a full minute of free fall.
Free fall.
This is insane.
“Sixty!” Reid grabbed the edge of the rounded door frame with one hand and the red lever with the other. Yet he hesitated.
Do it now.
You have to go now.
He forced himself to wrench the lever upward with a grunt and pushed outward. The door gave way and jerked violently, sliding open parallel to the body of the plane.
Reid quickly grabbed onto the door frame with his other hand, steadying himself as a torrent of intense wind tore at his clothes, threatening to yank him out into nothing.
He looked out over the edge. Down below, f
ar below, was the darkness of the ocean, the mountains, and a vague mass of lights. The city.
Terror gripped him. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t leap out of a plane moving at this speed, at this height…
It’s for them, the voice in his head reminded him. It’s for the girls.
“The girls. Sara. Maya.” He said it aloud but he couldn’t hear his own voice. He pictured their faces—smiling, happy, home. But then another thought intruded, the photo that Rais had sent him as a taunt—fraught, terrified, distressed.
He let go of the door frame and shoved off hard with the heels of his feet, tumbling out of the plane twelve thousand feet over Croatia.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The wind whipped around Reid’s ears with such intensity that it felt as if there was no sound at all, no sound in the entire world. There was no falling sensation, like he’d felt before jumping from a high-dive or down the first hill of a roller coaster; he felt weightless, as if he were unmoving, simply floating in place.
His body responded instinctively, knowing just what to do. His legs were bent slightly, muscles relaxed; his arms were out, elbows crooked, palms flat in front of his face.
It did not feel as if he were hurtling toward the ground, but rather that the ground was rushing up to meet him. Reid glanced downward and saw the lights of Dubrovnik, the yellow-lit runways of the airport, the dark shadows of the mountains…
The mountains. Account for the mountains.
He panicked slightly as he realized that he hadn’t been counting and had no idea how long he’d been falling. Relax. You’ll know when. His body angled, aiming for a trajectory closer to Dubrovnik Airport.
For several seconds, he forgot himself, forgot all of his problems as he was suspended in a bizarre limbo. This was something that Reid Lawson would never, ever have done. Kent Steele had done it dozens of times. Yet here they both were, one and the same, simultaneously at ease and anxious.
Then, before his mind even registered the thought, his hand found the ripcord and tore at it. The parachute billowed out above him, slowing his descent so quickly it felt as if he had been jerked back upward into the air.