He loved her.
He had almost from the moment he had met her. And it was never meant to be, but at least he’d spend the rest of his life behind bars with the memories of their lovemaking, an experience that was every bit as good as he imagined.
They just meshed.
And it made it all the more heartbreaking that it was never to happen again. He lay his head back on the pillow, listening to the sounds of activity outside, when a thought occurred to him.
Nobody was dead.
Yes, he was quite certain that some of their team were dead in Portugal, but no innocents were dead. All they had done was plant some explosives on data cables. Kozhin had detonated them, not his people. And even if found equally to blame, how many years in prison could that be? When murderers didn’t get imprisoned for life, how many years could they truly be sentenced? Five? Ten? He looked at Giselle and smiled.
Maybe there’s a chance for us yet.
He sighed. The engines were idling now, indicating they had obviously reached their destination. He wasn’t sure why he had ordered their return to the Azores site, as there was nothing they could actually do, but he wasn’t thinking rationally. At least he wasn’t a couple of hours ago when he had given the order. And now that he was, an unfortunate thought occurred to him.
There was something he could do.
He brushed some hairs from Giselle’s forehead and she moaned, snuggling closer though remaining asleep. There was one last, foolish thing he could do, but it would mean saying goodbye to Giselle forever.
And that was something he could never imagine himself doing.
Giselle rolled over and stretched, groaning in ecstasy, though not as intensely as earlier. It had been wonderful, and just what she had needed. She didn’t love Thatcher, but she did care for him, and liked him tremendously. In time, she could definitely see herself falling for him, though because he had never made a move on her, the nature of their relationship had become one of platonic friends, at least from her side of things.
She knew he liked her, though a lot of men did—she was unique—or at least different from most women these guys were used to. Her dark skin and big hair with Grace Jones makeup balanced with Tomboyish clothes, made her an eclectic mix of the exotic and forbidden.
But she never got the impression Thatcher just wanted to “try her out.” And their lovemaking session of earlier was proof of that. It was gentle and slow, not some frantic session of porn positions. He had stared into her eyes the entire time, had made her feel loved, and had shown that he hoped this would be something they’d do together every day for the rest of their lives.
She sighed. If being with him meant feeling the way she had earlier, then she could imagine a lot worse, and little better. She sat up, finally realizing she was alone in the narrow bed. She looked about the cabin, then spotted a folded note sitting atop her clothes on a nearby chair. She smiled when she spotted her name on the front.
She rose, the sheet gripped against her naked body, and grabbed the note, sitting back down and unfolding it. Her smile turned to a frown as she read what was written, then she burst from the edge of the bed, rushing out of the cabin and onto the deck. “Where’s Thatch?”
The others in sight stared at her naked body, mouths agape for a moment.
“Where is he?” she demanded, suddenly aware she was naked, but not caring in the slightest.
Fleming pointed at the water. “He went over about five minutes ago.”
Her eyes widened. “To do what?”
Fleming shrugged. “Dunno. I figured he’d have told you.”
He hadn’t, but the sickening pit in her stomach told her exactly what he planned.
As did the last lines in his letter to her.
I’m so happy my last memories will be of staring into your eyes. I love you, Thatch.
63
Operations Center 3, CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“Hey, boss, got something.”
Leroux glanced over at Child. “What is it?”
“Something just got posted onto social media, referencing the cables.” He tapped a few keys then nodded toward the displays at the front of the operations center. A video appeared, one man sitting in a chair, staring at the camera, the room behind him empty.
“My name is Gavin Thatcher. I’m the founder of Step Back Now. Many of you have no doubt heard the reports of transatlantic data cables being destroyed as part of an extortion attempt by Konstantin Kozhin. I want everyone to know that Step Back Now did indeed plant the bombs, but extortion was not our motive. Kozhin betrayed us. Our goal was to sever all the cables at once, and stimulate conversation on either side of the Atlantic. Our intent was to send the message that follows this one that I am recording now, to make people think about the harm they are doing to themselves, and society, by burying their heads behind their phones, and living their lives on the Internet, rather than in the real world.
“But our message has been lost to the greed of Mr. Kozhin, who stole our pure intent, and twisted it into the age-old sin of greed. It’s for this reason that I take this action today. Our message needs to get out, and there is only one way to stimulate that conversation. I can no longer sever all the cables that join our two continents, as the control lies with Mr. Kozhin. But I can sever one of them, and in so doing, I hope my sacrifice will draw the attention of the world, and stimulate that conversation I had hoped would occur had our original plans unfolded the way they were meant to. I do this not for me, but for you. There is still time to save yourselves, to save humanity. Come out from behind the screens, and embrace your fellow man.”
Tears filled the man’s eyes, and Leroux stepped closer, his expert mind reading every facial cue and body movement as the manifesto continued.
“Say hello to the person you catch a glimpse of every day in the line at the coffee shop, rather than stare at the cold piece of technology gripped in your hand.” His voice cracked. “Feel the touch of someone you love, rather than its unfeeling stiffness. Live the life you were meant to live, not the life corporations designed for you.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “I do this for the one I love.”
The screen went black and the room remained silent as everyone waited for someone else to say something. Leroux had to admit he was moved by the emotion displayed, but that wasn’t his job. His job was to stop what the man was about to do. He turned to face his team.
“I think it’s clear from that message that he intends to detonate the Azores device. Just in case we’re the first to see this, notify the Portuguese authorities and tell them what’s going on, and I’ll notify the Director that Mr. Kozhin is not responsible for the explosion that’s about to happen, so he can advise the President to not blow him out of the sky for violating the agreement.”
Child raised his hand. “Umm, boss?”
Leroux turned to him. “Yes?”
“There might be a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“The professors just landed in the Azores, and if we know them…”
Leroux cursed. “They’re going to try and stop him.”
64
EQ Hotel & Casino
Shanghai, China
“We have it.”
Kane smiled in the mirror, his earpiece, shoved so far into his ear canal it was invisible to the naked eye, relaying the critical update from his team. He spit the toothpaste into the sink, not responding, a camera hidden behind the mirror in front of him. He swished some mouthwash then gargled, again spitting, then wiped his mouth dry, giving the mirror a grin to check his teeth. “The good news is, I’m a handsome devil.” He held up his deodorant stick. “On to stage two!” He began applying it, then his cologne.
“Stage two has been initiated. Mr. Zhang’s yacht has just been reported found in Macao.”
Kane gave two thumbs up to the mirror, knowing his team, and Zhang’s men, were monitoring the feed. He stepped out of the steamed up bathro
om, and smiled at Tien humming happily in the next room. Last night had been a lot of fun, a great deal of pleasure taken in knowing he had saved the poor girl from at least one night of having to service one of Zhang’s clients or henchmen.
He put his watch on and entered a sequence to activate it, and was rewarded with a series of pulses indicating a message. He grabbed his phone and stepped out on the balcony with a cigarette. He checked the message from Leroux and cursed. Acton was apparently storming into danger again, probably unarmed, and there was nothing he could do about it. If anything, the CIA’s warning to him probably only egged the man on further.
He shook his head, then stared out at the city below, thinking how easy it should be for Tien to lose herself among the millions. But without resources, without contacts, there was nothing she could do.
And it ate him up.
“Tien!”
The diminutive woman appeared in his bedroom door and he waved at her through the glass. She smiled and stepped onto the balcony. He beckoned her to join him in the corner, out of sight of the camera. “Speak very low, otherwise they can hear us.”
Her eyes bulged, a hint of fear on her face, but she nodded.
“Where are you from originally?”
“Vietnam.”
“How did you get here?”
Her eyes widened even further. “I-I was kidnapped when I crossed the border to sell our fruit in the market.”
“So your family is still there?”
She shrugged. “I hope so.”
“If you were given the chance, would you go back?”
Her head drooped. “I can never go back. They told me they’d kill me and my family if I ever tried.”
Kane tensed, a rage forming in his stomach. “I understand.” He put an arm around her. “Did I hear you say breakfast arrived?”
She forced a smile. “Yes.”
“Great, I’m starved. Let’s eat!”
65
Pico Airport
Pico Island, Azores
Acton rushed down the steps of the Gulf V, the SUV they had rented earlier waiting for them, somebody from the hotel holding the keys with a smile. Laura’s travel agent Mary was incredible, never failing to impress.
“Thanks!” He grabbed the keys, climbing in the driver’s seat, Reading shotgun, with Laura and Spencer occupying the back. He fired up the engine and chirped the tires as he accelerated away from the terminal and toward their dive site. Reading leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Slow down, you’re liable to get us killed, or worse, some innocent bystander. Besides, what do you plan on doing when you get there?”
Acton eased off the gas slightly, then a lot when he came around a blind corner and nearly rear-ended a sedan. Reading was right. What could he do? He couldn’t defuse a bomb, he couldn’t risk his life diving over two hundred feet below the surface to fight an unknown number of people under the water, especially people who had a submersible with robot arms. “I can direct the authorities, if necessary.”
Reading leaned back. “Yes, that is something you can do. But the update from the CIA said they had notified the authorities of the location of the suspects’ boat, and that we were advised to back off.”
His friend was only trying to help, but Acton was getting frustrated regardless. If that bomb went off, there was no saying what it could do to the discovery. He wasn’t even sure it was Atlantis, but if the trident had been discovered by accident, surely there were other artifacts buried under the accumulation of silt that could provide further evidence of either what city Niner had discovered, or whether Atlantis did actually exist, somewhere. He couldn’t let anything happen to it.
They reached the coastal road and Laura pointed to the ocean. “Look!”
Several boats with lights flashing were racing along with them, the Portuguese evidently not only having received the update from the CIA, but deciding to act on it. It gave Acton hope, and an irrational part of him wished they boarded the hostile’s boat with the same ferocity as their own liberators back on the mainland.
A wave of regret swept over him as he pictured the simple, friendly man the others had called Spud, and the innocent brother, dragged into a conspiracy merely because he was born into the same family as a zealot.
“I can’t believe someone is doing all this because they have a hate-on for Facebook.”
Acton glanced at Spencer in the rearview mirror, but said nothing. The boy was right. It was ridiculous, if that were all it was. On the plane, they had heard the final words of a desperate man, then the message that had originally been meant to be sent, the video already trending worldwide and leading every newscast.
He actually agreed with their message.
He avoided Facebook as much as he could, had deleted his LinkedIn and Twitter accounts years ago, and had never even created an account for Snapchat, Pinterest, Instagram, and whatever else the kids were using these days to hide their activity from their parents.
He preferred human contact.
Face-to-face.
He had taken to text messaging, as it was convenient in many instances, but he still preferred to pick up the phone and call someone. He always found it at once amusing and dismaying at how awkward so many millennials sounded on the phone, their inexperience with the medium tragic. These terrorists—he hesitated to use the word since they weren’t out killing in the name of their god—had a message that deserved to be heard, but their methods could never be condoned.
And the unintended consequences of what he feared their leader, Thatcher, was about to do, could be tragic.
He had to be stopped.
The question was who was going to do it.
66
Off the coast of Pico Island, Azores
Giselle had been shoved back in her cabin by Fleming, but not before running around the entire deck of their boat, screaming for someone to do something.
“Put some clothes on, for God’s sake!”
She had wanted to react with rage, but instead realized Fleming was right, the men not answering her, instead drinking in her body. Nudity had never been much of a thing for her, her parents free spirits, the naked form nothing to be shocked over. At the appropriate time, it should be enjoyed and partaken of, but this was not that time.
She emerged from the cabin, dressed, and headed for the rear deck. “Has anyone reached him?”
Fleming looked at her. “Yes, he’s responding, but he’s not turning back.”
Giselle pointed at the submersible. “Get it in the water.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody has to stop him.”
67
Approaching Newfoundland & Labrador, Canada
“Sir, we’re approaching the coast.”
Kozhin nodded at Anokhin and rose, following him to the rear of the aircraft. The mercenaries, with the exception of the pilot and copilot, were gathered, all now dressed in civilian attire, no longer in their private contractor gear.
Anokhin presented two of his men. “They will be diving with you. They are two of my best. We’ve already confirmed the boat is in position to meet you. They’ll guide you down. Just remain calm, remember what I’ve told you, listen to them, and you’ll come out of this no problem.”
Kozhin looked at him. “I still think we should all be going.”
Anokhin shook his head. “No, a large group will draw too much attention. And don’t forget, we have our own contingency.”
Kozhin nodded, trying to keep a brave face on for the sake of the alpha males that surrounded him. He had never been one to consider himself a coward, then again, he had never done what he was about to do. It was insane, and once again he questioned whether he should go forward with it. So he’d spend some time in prison. Big deal. He could do the time, especially with the money he had.
They’ll probably deport you to Russia.
He frowned at the memory of Anokhin’s words. Russian prison was not something he could survive
. The horror stories of the modern gulags were bone-chilling, and even those with money who had challenged the almighty leader, were rotting, their billions unable to even ease their suffering. He drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders.
“Let’s get this over with.”
Dawson checked his gear once again, readying for what the CIA had suggested might be the endgame move of their target, one Konstantin Kozhin. The man had quite the file, his father an even thicker one, and had a history of going to the extremes when in tight quarters—and none were tighter than he was in now.
He had been found out, betrayed by General Gorokhin in his final moments, resulting in him being trapped in a tin can in the sky. While it was an interesting idea to run the operation from a Russian Air Force plane over the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, it left few options if one were discovered.
Which meant he had a contingency plan.
The Russians had confirmed the plane wasn’t manned by their people, which likely meant mercenaries. The CIA had found out that Kozhin had dealings with Medved Corps, a group made up mostly of ex-soldiers, many of whom were Spetsnaz—Russian Special Forces. They were good at their jobs, and would have planned for such a scenario, even if Kozhin hadn’t.
His comm crackled in his ear. “They’re descending. Stand by.”
Dawson stood and stretched, turning to the others. “Looks like our friends at the Agency might be right. Check your gear, and be ready for a fight.”
The others all rose and Dawson inspected Spock’s gear then he did the same for him. A slap on the back had him turning to face his men. “If this goes down the way I think it will, we eliminate the escort first, then Kozhin only if necessary.
Spock cocked an eyebrow. “And how are we supposed to know who’s who?”
Atlantis Lost Page 17