Hunting Zero

by Jack Mars

  He glanced up; the parachute was, thankfully, black. With any luck, no one would notice his descent onto the dark sloping hillside closest to the airport. He bent his legs as he landed in the dirt, jogging into the impact. He immediately unclipped the parachute from his chest and slipped it off, and then crouched in the darkness overlooking the airport.

  It would be just after nine o’clock local time, by his best estimate. The weather was mild; it might have been cold if the air wasn’t so still. Dubrovnik Airport was quite small by international standards. A horseshoe-shaped tract of runway sat beside a long, industrial-modern building, all nestled in the base of low-lying mountains. The city center was closer to the coast, about twelve miles away.

  But that’s not where Reid was going, at least not yet.

  Instead of heading toward the airport, he slung his bag over a shoulder and strode quickly down the hillside in the other direction, toward a rectangular gray building on the opposite side of the runway. A yellow-and-red airplane, emblazoned with the logo of an international freight carrier, sat on an off-ramp of runway as a crew worked to unload it under bright yellow pole lights.

  As he drew nearer, he scanned the runway and frowned in dismay. Two police cars were on the tarmac, their lights off, with four officers watching the crew unloading the cargo plane. He had expected more of a presence from his arrangement with Riker. He’d expected barricades, police, perhaps canines, even Interpol. There was none of that.

  There were only two possible answers that he could conceive—either Riker had not allocated the promised time and resources to Dubrovnik and had merely tipped off the Croatian authorities, or the police had not found anything. If his math was right, and the girls had been ferried immediately from a boat onto a plane in Nova Scotia, then they would have arrived hours ago—perhaps even before he was in the air, before he even spoke to Riker.

  And if that was the case, then Rais had a seven-hour lead on him. They could be anywhere by now. He had to find out for himself what was going on, and he couldn’t very well walk up to the police on the tarmac and ask them if they’d found any girls in the cargo planes. Instead, he clung to the shadows of the blocky building and slipped quietly inside.

  The freight terminal was a wide, warehouse-like building with a high ceiling and concrete floors. The place was more than half-empty; the city wasn’t exactly a huge freight hub, and there were only a few employees milling about.

  He strode up to the first man he saw and asked, “English?”

  The Croatian man frowned and scratched his chin. “Yes,” he said uncertainly.

  “Manager?” To the man’s deeper frown he said, “Supervisor? Boss.”

  “Ah, boss. Yes.” The man pointed toward a back corner of the depot. “There.”

  “Thank you.” Reid hurried past him toward the rear office.

  Despite how frustrating and exasperating the long flight had been, there was a strange benefit to it—all that nervous energy that had been balled up inside him for so long had to go somewhere, had to be exerted. He was ready to get answers. After so many hours of doing nothing, Reid was ready to do anything.

  He pushed open the steel, white-painted door and into the small office. The man seated behind the desk glanced up suddenly from his computer screen. He was heavyset, with a scraggly beard dotted in gray covering his bulbous chin. He wore a wrinkled blue uniform and managed to look both surprised and irritated at Reid’s intrusion.

  He asked something in Croatian that Reid didn’t understand.

  “English?” He lowered his black bag to the floor as he gave the office a quick once-over. Behind the desk was a file cabinet and a single small window with the blinds closed. Otherwise the room was remarkably sparse.

  “Who are you?” the man asked. “What do you want?”

  Reid closed the door. “The police out there. Were there more? Were they here, asking questions?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “They found nothing. Who are you…?”

  They found nothing. “Was it because there was nothing to find, or because it was already gone?” Reid asked. To the supervisor’s silence, he said, “A plane arrived here from Nova Scotia sometime today. Was that before the police came?”

  “I have answered their questions already,” the man said indignantly. “So unless you can tell me who you are, I am going to ask you to leave.”

  Reid shook his head. “I’m going to need to see your flight manifests.”

  “Those are confidential documents,” he argued. “Are you American?”

  “Yes.” Reid didn’t have time to argue. He needed answers. He grabbed the guest chair opposite the man’s desk, four-legged and metal, and jammed it under the doorknob so that no one could push it open from the other side.

  That got the supervisor’s attention. He stood suddenly, knocking papers from his desktop. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m looking for something.” Reid pulled the Glock from its holster.

  The man’s eyes widened in fright. “There is no money here,” he said quickly. “Nothing of value…”

  “I disagree. The cargo that was on that plane is very valuable. Now I need to know if that plane arrived here, when it did, and where that cargo went.”

  The supervisor did not answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched. His hands trembled visibly. “I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

  He knows.

  Reid sighed. “I don’t have time to waste. Put your hands flat on the desk.” He unzipped his bag and rifled through it, certain that Watson would have included what he needed.

  “Wh-what?” the man stammered.

  “Put. Your hands. Flat.” Reid tapped the metal surface twice. “Right there. Or I will shoot you.”

  Shaking, the man put his thick hands down on the desk. As he did, Reid found what he was looking for—a black tactical lockback knife. He flicked it open. The blade was stubby and wide, spade-shaped, but wickedly sharp. It would suit his needs just fine.

  “One more time,” he said quietly. “Did that plane land here? When did it land here? Where did the cargo go?”

  The supervisor gulped. His hands shook so badly that his wedding ring clacked against the metal desktop. The man was terrified—but he was not protesting any knowledge. He’s afraid to say. He thought of Bill, back at Port Jersey. They’ll kill me, he said. They were afraid of what the traffickers would do to them.

  Now they’ll be afraid of me.

  In one swift motion Reid slammed the blade down, slicing easily through the meaty palm of the supervisor’s hand until the tip grated against the metal on the other side.

  The man threw back his head and screamed as he tried to pull his hand away, but Reid held it fast. After several seconds he yanked the bloody knife out and the supervisor crumpled to the floor, whimpering and cradling his skewered hand.

  “Now,” said Reid. “Where did they take the girls?”

  “I don’t… I don’t know…”

  Someone banged heavily on the office door from the other side, trying in vain to push it open. The wedged chair held it shut. “Marko!” a voice shouted, followed by a frantic line in Croatian.

  “Marko?” Reid asked. “Is that your name?”

  “Y-yes…” the supervisor stammered.

  “Do you have kids, Marko?” Reid had to speak up over the shouts coming from the other side of the door.

  Marko whimpered again and nodded.

  “So do I.” Reid knelt and wiped the blood from the blade on Marko’s shirt. “Two girls. They were on that plane. Do you want your children to grow up fatherless?”

  “No,” he sobbed. “No, no.”

  “Then tell me something, Marko. Or else you’re useless to me.”

  Marko sucked in a jagged breath. “Th-they landed here. Hours ago, before the police came. They… they have a van waiting. The girls go in it. No one sees anything. No one talks.”

  “Where does the van go?” Reid was running o
ut of time. The men outside would undoubtedly alert the police out on the runway.

  “I don’t know…”

  Reid pressed the Glock against the man’s temple, hard enough to leave a red ring in his skin.

  “I don’t know!” he shouted.

  Something heavy slammed against the door. A husky voice shouted in Croatian. Someone was trying to break it down, and it wouldn’t hold forever.

  Reid grunted. “You must have a way to contact them.”

  “No, they always come to me…”

  “Something, Marko! Give me something, or I will kill you—”

  The men on the other side of the door slammed it again. The chair jarred slightly. I need more time. Reid pointed the gun straight up at the ceiling and fired twice. Marko cried out in shock at the deafening report. The men outside shouted frantically, their voices growing distant as they scattered. At least for now, Reid thought.

  “My patience has worn out, Marko. Goodbye…”

  “Wait!” the supervisor shrieked. “Wait, please wait. The… the manifests…”

  “What about them?” Reid growled.

  “The cargo manifests for their, their flights. The documents claim they are bringing in textiles.” Marko’s eyes were squeezed shut tightly, waiting for a bullet to enter his skull.

  “Textiles? As in, fabric? Materials?”

  “Yes. Yes. Under a company name. Tkanina.”

  “Tkanina,” Reid repeated. “Is that Croatian?”

  “Yes,” Marko gasped. “It just means ‘cloth.’ It… it is probably fake. I never checked. I didn’t ask questions.”

  Tkanina. That’s a start. “Anything else, Marko?”

  “No, no. I swear I do not know any more than that.”

  Reid believed him. The front of the man’s shirt was slick with the blood from his hand; the front of his pants was soaked with urine.

  There was shouting again from the other side of the door. Reid stood, holstered his Glock, and snatched up his bag.

  “Policija!” someone barked. Then a command in Croatian.

  “One more thing,” Reid said quickly as he yanked open the blinds over the small window. “The names and ages of your children. Say them.”

  Marko sniffled. “Miroslav. Thirteen.” He whimpered. “Lana. Fifteen.”

  “A girl.” Reid scoffed. “You have a little girl. You’re disgusting.” He shoved the window open and hazarded a glance out into the darkness. The office was facing the rear of the building; there was nothing out there but the gentle slope of the low mountains beyond.

  He tossed his bag out first. Before he climbed out after it, he said, “You’re going to tell the police all this, Marko. You’re going to admit what you’ve done. You’re going to have them here, ready to bust the next plane and the Slavs. And you’re going to go to jail for what you’ve done. Because I won’t be far. I’ll be watching. If you try to run, or tip anyone off, I’ll find you. I will kill you, Marko. Understand?”

  “Yes. Yes. I understand. Yes.” The man sniffled and wiped his leaking nose with his good hand.

  Reid grabbed onto the windowsill with both hands. It was going to be a challenge, squeezing himself through this tiny portal.

  But before he could, something heavy slammed against the door. The chair fell aside and the jamb sprang open, three angry Croatian police officers on the other side.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Reid’s hand was already inside his jacket as the door swung inward. He yanked out the Glock and fired two shots toward the door.

  He had no intention of shooting anyone that didn’t deserve it. Reid tracked his aim slightly to the left just before pulling the trigger and both bullets buried in the wall. Yet it had the desired effect; the cops and cargo workers crowded outside the small office took cover, vanishing from the frame.

  The distraction gave him the precious few seconds he needed. He forced the doubt of the earlier moment out of his mind as he crouched and pounced, pushing off his toes and shoving his hands straight in front of him in a swan dive. His body careened through the narrow window, but he felt his toes snag the sill as he landed painfully onto the pavement outside, tucking into a sloppy roll. His shoulder throbbed; he’d have a substantial bruise there later.

  He snatched up his bag as he scrambled to his feet and broke into a sprint, running parallel between the freight terminal and the low mountains behind it. He immediately regretted firing the shots; though it gave him the necessary time to escape, he had just authorized the police to use deadly force against him. And he had only seen three officers, when he knew there were at least four…

  As soon as the thought crossed his mind someone came into view just ahead of him, another cop rounding the corner of the building with his service pistol drawn and pointed downward. Reid did not pause or even slow down; he lowered his shoulder and slammed into the cop at full speed like a defensive tackle.

  “Oomph!” The officer took a hundred seventy-six pounds of Agent Zero to the midsection. For a moment the man’s entire body was off the ground, weightless, and then he crashed to the asphalt hard on his back.

  Reid vaulted over him without slowing and sprinted onward. He stuck to the shadows, clinging close to the base of the mountains. Sirens screamed behind him as the police took to their cars. He needed to buy some time, at least enough to find a place to hide. He scrambled up the gentle slope of the mountain for about ten yards, tore off his jacket, and threw it into the dirt. Then he doubled back and continued parallel to the runway. With any luck the police would find the jacket and assume he made a run for the hills.

  Reid ran until the tarmac ended in flat, dark fields, occasionally stealing a glance over his shoulder to see headlights and flashers in the distance. But they weren’t far; they would come this way soon enough. After nearly a half mile of running he paused, catching his breath, and crouched low in the shadows of the grassy field. He unzipped his bag and pulled out a change of clothes. He replaced his white T-shirt with an olive-green one, secured his shoulder holster, and then pulled on a brown blazer to replace the jacket he’d tossed. Deeper in the bag he found a blue baseball cap—thanks Watson, he thought—and pulled it on.

  Still in the grass and shadows, he circled wide around the airport, approaching it from the east. Even under the cover of darkness he wasn’t terribly keen on staying on foot, not while the police were searching. He couldn’t be sure they had gotten a decent look at him, but he didn’t want to take the chance. Besides, it was a twelve-mile hike to walk to Dubrovnik proper.

  When he reached the road he walked just beyond the shoulder toward the front of the airport. He just had to get to the bus terminal, and from there he could take a shuttle into the city. He was hoping the police would assume that the perpetrator with the gun wouldn’t be stupid enough to just get on a bus.

  He was less than twenty yards from the bus terminal when two police officers exited the airport right next to the waiting shuttle. Reid cursed and quickly leaned against a metal signpost, trying to look casual.

  He checked his periphery. One of the uniformed officers boarded the bus. The other mulled about near its doors, chatting with tourists. Likely asking them if they’d seen anyone fitting Reid’s description.

  If he stayed and waited for his chance to board a shuttle, they might find him. The airport wasn’t large and despite Dubrovnik’s popularity as a tourist spot, there weren’t nearly as many visitors in the colder months. But what choice do I have? I can’t rent a car. I can’t walk it without risking being seen…

  “Hey!” A gray sedan pulled to a halt directly in front of him. The passenger window was down, and the driver leaned over to address Reid. “Hello, my friend! Yes, you. Are you American?”

  Reid realized he was leaning against a sign for a taxi stand. The gray car had two words stenciled on the door in faded letters, in both English and (presumably) Croatian: Taxi Service.

  “You need ride?” The driver’s English wasn’t great, but at least he spoke it.


  “Yes. I do.” Reid tossed his bag in and slid after it into the backseat. “Drive into Dubrovnik. City center.”

  “You got it.” The taxi pulled away from the curb. Reid turned his head away as they cruised past the bus and the police officers. In less than a minute they were out of the airport and on their way to the city. “You alone, my friend? Where is your family?”

  “I’m meeting them,” Reid said succinctly. The driver was about his age, maybe a year or two younger, with a heavy five o’clock shadow and tired eyes. But he smiled pleasantly—he had an American tourist in the backseat, which Reid understood to probably mean he expected a nice tip. “I only have US dollars. Is that a problem?”

  “No, no problem. Happens a lot with tourists. Forget to change money. Lacking of… of, uh…” He snapped his fingers as if it would conjure the word.

  “Foresight?” Reid offered.

  “Sense,” said the driver.

  Reid scoffed lightly. He noticed a thick sheaf of travel brochures in the pocket of the seat back, advertising things to do and places to stay in the city.

  One of them in particular caught his eye.

  “Where are you staying, friend?”

  “I’m staying here.” Reid passed the bright brochure up to the driver. It looked like a beautiful place; the cover advertised crystal-clear pools and modern villas overlooking the Adriatic coast.

  “Oh,” said the driver, impressed. “Villa Maya, huh? I had a feeling you were wealthy man.” He winked in the rearview mirror.

  Reid took the hint. In his pocket he still had the wad of emergency cash he had taken from his closet before leaving Virginia. He peeled off a hundred-dollar bill and passed it to the driver. “This is for you,” he said. “And keep the change. But we have to make a stop first.”

  “Stop where?”

  “I’m looking for a place that I believe operates somewhere in the city. It’s a company by the name of Tkanina.”

  The driver chuckled. “You know that means ‘fabric,’ yes? You are looking for a place called ‘Fabric’?”