“They’re on location already. His flight should be arriving any minute.”
“Excellent.”
Dawson wished he was at the airport to remove the professor from existence himself, but it wasn’t to be—his current job more important. He heard chirping from his headpiece on the table and reached over to pick it up. Pushing it into his ear, he heard the call repeated.
“Bravo One, Control, do you read, over?”
“Control, Bravo One. Go ahead, over.”
“Bravo One, we have a possible security breach on this end that needs to be taken care of,” said the voice. “Send one of your men to Washington immediately, instructions have been sent via secure transmission. Control, out.”
Dawson looked at Red who nodded. “Encrypted packet just arrived for you, Sergeant Major.” He brought up the transmission on his laptop and spun it toward his commander. Dawson entered his password and read the file.
“Holy shit!”
“What?”
Dawson held up a finger and finished reading the transmission, leaning back in his chair when he was done. “This thing is way bigger than we thought.”
“What do you mean?” asked Red, his fingers suddenly freezing over his keyboard.
“This terrorist cell, the one we’ve been having our doubts about?”
“Yeah?”
“They’ve got one of their own working in the White House, not two hundred feet from the President!”
Acton awoke as the flight began its descent into New York. He tried to stretch his arms and legs in the cramped seating without much success. Putting his shoes back on, having removed them shortly after takeoff, he gave his lap belt a tug as he tried to mentally prepare himself for what might be next. He was sure he had been watched, and no doubt they had flagged his ID, but the fact he hadn’t been intercepted told him whoever was after him wanted the skull. After struggling overnight through the desert sand and bitter cold, he and his cadre of illegals had made it to a road where his companions hid behind a dune, waiting for a prearranged truck to arrive. Since he was an American, he decided to just hitch a ride and within minutes was picked up by a rig headed to Phoenix.
Once there, he paid cash for a room at a motel, cleaned up and put on a fresh set of clothes purchased from a nearby thrift shop, then found a store with a FedEx drop-off where he put the riskiest part of his plan into motion, a plan he had developed while on the ship from Peru.
But did it work?
When he had arrived in Mexico he had Googled the skulls, reading up as much as he could on them, eventually finding an expert who didn’t appear to be a quack.
In England.
If they hadn’t found the package he sent then he should be okay getting off the flight.
But if they had?
His heart hammered against his ribs, adrenaline rushing through his veins as he realized if his ploy hadn’t worked, he was most likely about to die. As the plane taxied then stopped, waiting for the gangway to extend, he repeated the same two words over and over.
Stay alive!
Phoenix, Arizona
Jimmy gunned the motor and cut in front of the FedEx van their new orders had sent them to intercept. He slammed his brakes on, blocking their target, as the other three Bravo Team members jumped out with weapons drawn, pointing them at the panicked driver.
“Get out of the truck!” ordered Niner, tapping his gun on the window. The driver raised his hands and climbed out, his blue shorts revealing his clearly shaking knees. “Open the back!” The driver shuffled sideways to the back, never taking his eyes off the gun pointed at his head. He groped for the handle and, when he found it, twisted it then pulled the door up, revealing hundreds of packages inside. “We’re looking for this package number,” said Niner as he handed him a tracking number. The driver nodded, still shaking, and climbed into the back of the truck. A minute later he found the package and handed it to Niner.
Niner double-checked the tracking number and the information shown on the package. Professor Acton’s name was written clearly on the label. Looking back at the trembling driver, he raised his weapon and cold-cocked the terrified man on the side of his head, rendering him unconscious. He returned to the SUV, handing the package to Marco.
“Bravo Command, Bravo Nine, we’ve recovered the item, over,” said Marco, activating his comm as the rest of the team climbed back in. Jimmy quickly put several miles between them and the FedEx truck then Marco had him pull into an area of warehouses and stop. “Everyone out, I have to confirm the contents.” The other team members exited the Escalade, leaving Marco alone.
He had been cleared to open the package by Dawson, but no one else was to see what was inside by order of Control. As the other team members milled about outside the SUV, he carefully examined the package for booby traps, then used his utility knife to cut open the packing tape that encased the plain brown box. Opening the top he removed the packing material inside, his heart pounding with the excitement of finally finding out what this entire mission had been about. What was worth killing all those people for? He didn’t know what to expect, but when he had removed enough of the packing material to reveal the item he shook his head in disbelief.
What the hell is this?
Clint and Atlas fell in behind Acton as he left the secure area of the airport. When Clint had been assigned this mission he had relished in the thought of killing the man who had taken his friend. Spaz had been the one to give him his nickname when he had joined The Unit, both of them loving old movies, Spaz always acting out parts with Clint doing incredibly bad impressions of the characters’ voices—one of his worst being Dirty Harry. He smiled at the memory then frowned.
This is for you, buddy.
“Bravo Eight, Bravo Command. Do you have him, over?”
Clint tapped his earpiece. “Bravo Command, Bravo Eight. Affirmative, moving into position now, over.”
“Roger that, Bravo Eight. Eliminate the subject. Bravo Command, out.”
Clint looked at Atlas with a nod, their orders confirmed. He could feel his heart pick up a few beats as they closed the gap between themselves and their target. Rarely had he killed in revenge, not for something so personal. Killing terrorists in revenge for 9/11 was one thing. But killing the man who killed a buddy, who killed Spaz?
That was completely different.
But he had to keep his emotions in check, otherwise he might blow the mission. Killing him would be easy. Killing him and getting away with it was the hard part.
They were both dressed in suits with long overcoats. Clint had his hands in both pockets, the bulge from his silencer-tipped weapon now pointing at the target. They quickened their pace. As they did, a man crossed in front of them pulling a carry-on and staring at a map of the airport. Atlas shoved him out of the way as they stumbled over the case and Clint knew their cover was blown as he looked up to see their target make eye contact.
Acton turned to see the commotion behind him. One man was on his knees, a case he had been pulling knocked over on the floor. Two men were stepping over him without a second glance. Acton looked down and saw one of them had his hand in his pocket, something metallic showing. A gun! Acton looked up at the man and nearly fainted when he saw him staring directly at him. Acton whipped his head back around and picked up his pace, his heart slamming against his ribcage as if he were running a marathon.
Clint was about three feet behind Acton, Atlas to his side and slightly back. Clint slowly squeezed the trigger, there no way he could miss at this distance, and in the din of the airport, it would barely be noticed. Red had already disabled the cameras in this area, and any footage that might show them would be scrubbed by Ops.
Spaz’s murderer was about to die, another terrorist leader was about to answer his maker.
“Abort, abort, abort!” came Dawson’s voice through the comm system ear buds. “Do not eliminate the target!”
Clint’s chest immediately tightened as his
finger left the trigger. He casually broke to the left as Atlas went in the opposite direction, disappointment shoving the exhilaration he was feeling aside.
Goddammit!
Acton was now panicked and about to run. Blood roared through his ears, adrenaline rushed through his veins causing his entire body to shake as his heart pumped so fast he could feel himself becoming faint. Looking again over his shoulder, preparing to turn and fight, with what he had no idea, he stopped.
Both men were gone.
He looked around but they were nowhere to be seen. Had he imagined it? No, that was definitely a gun. He sucked in several deep, slow breaths, calming himself, then resuming his walk, albeit at a brisk pace, to the car rental counter.
And smiled. So far, his plan was working.
And they definitely don’t have the skull.
“The bastard, he must have sent a second package,” said Dawson, respect for his adversary ratcheting up another notch. It had been close, Marco’s reporting of the package merely containing rocks coming in mere seconds before their target was about to be eliminated.
Too close.
He turned to Red. “Run a check, see if you can find another package he might have sent. And I want Atlas on a flight to Washington to plug that security hole.”
Dawson sat down and connected to Control to relay the news. He hadn’t anticipated much resistance in Peru, and they certainly hadn’t received any except from the Professor. He’s a smart one. He wouldn’t underestimate him again. His doubts on whether or not they had been sent on a bullshit mission were diminishing. The terror cell had a student inside the White House and Acton had sent a decoy package, clearly proving there actually was an object that needed to be retrieved.
What the hell that object was, he still had no clue, except that it was some type of crystal material.
“You’ll know it when you see it.”
Dawson shook his head.
What the hell does that mean?
17th Street, Washington, DC
After what had seemed an endless day, Billy was finally heading home. His chest was still tight, his palms sweating as he walked toward his apartment from the corner store where he had grabbed a microwaveable hoagie. I shouldn’t have seen that! Hearing footsteps behind him, he looked back over his shoulder. He could see a man walking behind him who seemed to be looking down the street, perhaps for a cab. He quickened his pace.
The footsteps quickened their pace as well. His heart felt like it would pound out of his chest. He started to run. Dodging into an alleyway, he ran toward the other end. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the man follow him into the dead end. His attention on the man behind him, he didn’t notice the discarded tire in front of him until he tripped over it, landing on the ground.
As he scrambled to get up, he was hauled to his feet and spun around, his back facing the man. In one swift motion the man covered his mouth and pulled his head back, stifling his scream. Something moved across his throat then a warm liquid pulsed down his neck onto his chest. It took a moment before the pain registered and he realized that his own blood was pouring from his now slit throat.
The man threw him to the ground and, as Billy lay there bleeding out, he stared helplessly as the man took his wallet, keys and watch. Just before he lost consciousness he heard the man say something.
“Bravo Command, Bravo Seven. The target has been eliminated, over.”
New York City, New York
Milton exited his cab on 71st Street, his head hunkered down behind the collar of his jacket. He hurried into Central Park and headed to Strawberry Fields. He glanced behind him then broke into a run. He had flown out that afternoon to New York after delivering the eulogy, and had been traveling around the city by cab, subway and foot, just in case he was being followed. His paranoia had become so intense he was now suspicious of everyone. His chest was pounding and he could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins, fueling his panic further. Forcing himself to breathe deeply, he slowly calmed down. He eased to a jog then eventually a brisk walk, trying to catch his breath, cursing his desk job.
Remember where we crammed for English Lit finals? Can you meet me there?
Almost twenty years ago, as a grad student, he had taken Acton, a promising sophomore, under his wing. They had been virtually inseparable ever since. They’d jog through the park almost every morning and engage in deep philosophical discussions while sitting on the benches or lying in the various green spaces.
Strawberry Fields lay in the most beautiful part of Central Park. He had discovered it before it became known as that, before Ed Koch dedicated it to John Lennon, before its upgrade, and before people flocked to it. By the time he’d met Acton, that had died down and it became their escape from the throngs that were New York City.
When he had offered Acton a teaching position at the college four years ago, he had been afraid it would affect their relationship, but it hadn’t. Yes, they had their fights, some loud ones—including the one preceding his latest expedition—but those had only served to strengthen their friendship. Acton was a well-respected archeologist and the alumni loved him. He had ended up being perfect for the position.
Twenty years ago I quizzed him for his English Lit finals on that bench.
He came to an abrupt stop and looked around again. No one. Including Jim. He eyed the bench where they had sat that night. His Blackberry went off, sending his pulse racing again.
Look under the bench.
Inching toward the bench, he sat. He tried to casually reach under it with his left hand and feel around. Almost immediately he felt something taped underneath. It came free with a little effort. He hid it in his hand and brought it up, palm inward, shielding it from view of anyone. He crossed his legs and, with his leg now blocking his hand from view, turned it over to see what had been underneath the bench.
A cellphone!
He nearly jumped out of his skin as it vibrated in his hand. Flipping it open, he brought it to his ear as casually as his shaking hands could manage.
“Don’t say anything, you’re being watched,” said the voice. Milton looked around but couldn’t see his friend. “Go and visit our angel, you know where she is, and wait for me to call you there. Cough if you understand.”
He coughed.
“Okay, see you soon my friend.” The line went dead.
Milton got up and walked east, deeper into the park, toward Bethesda Terrace. His heart drummed in his chest and blood rushed through his ears. Calm down. Inhale. Exhale. He tried to ignore the people around him, but he couldn’t help wondering which ones might be following him.
17th Street, Washington, DC
“What have we got?” asked Detective Raymond Wheeler of his partner, Detective Justin Schultz, as he ducked under the yellow police tape. Wheeler’s slightly portly figure wasn’t the model of police fitness, but twenty-five years on the force quite often led to that, especially since he hadn’t been chasing perps in over ten. Detective work was less physically challenging, but a hell of a lot more interesting. He’d been partnered with Schultz for most of his time as a detective and, much to his chagrin, Schultz had managed to avoid the spare tire.
“One DB, probably a mugging,” said the medical examiner. “I just got here. I’ll know more when I get a look at him.”
“Mugging, eh?” Wheeler knelt down and lifted a corner of the sheet draped over the body. “Any ID?”
“No, no wallet, keys or watch,” replied an officer.
Schultz turned to the officer. “You were first on the scene?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If this is a mugging, then why was this made a priority homicide call?” asked Wheeler.
“Not by me,” said the ME. “That was our overzealous friend here.” He jabbed his thumb at the officer behind him.
Wheeler looked at him. “Well? Are you just wasting my time or are you going to speak up for yourself?”
The young officer looked nervous. “Well, sir,
it’s like this. I’m ex-army, did two tours in Iraq, and, well, this doesn’t look like a mugging to me.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Look at the cut, sir,” he said. “That’s text book, exactly the way we were trained to take someone out from behind, with no noise.”
Wheeler approached the body and pulled aside the sheet. He looked closely at the wound. The kid’s right. This was no mugging. He looked at the ME. “What do you think?”
The ME knelt down and examined the wound. “Could be. He moves to the top of my list. I’ll contact you as soon as I know more, probably a couple of hours.”
“Run his prints right away, too. I want to know who this kid was.”
New York City, New York
“Is that a cellphone he picked up?” asked Lambert, staring at the video footage transmitted by one of the trailing agents.
Jasper leaned over Lambert’s shoulder as he peered at the monitor in front of them. “Yes it is. Can we listen in?”
“No. None of our agents in place have a parabolic.”
“Shit!” Jasper pointed to a young agent in the back of the van. “Turner, take a parabolic and get out there now!”
“Won’t I look kind of conspicuous, sir?”
“To hell with conspicuous, we need to hear that conversation!” yelled Jasper. “Go!”
Turner grabbed the parabolic dish out of an upper cabinet and exited the back of the van. He dodged the heavy morning traffic on Central Park West and sprinted into the park. He felt like an idiot. There was no way to be inconspicuous while carrying a one-foot diameter circular cone. As he neared the bench where Milton had just been, he received instructions over his earpiece as to where the target was now heading. He finally spotted Milton just as he reached a fountain. He saw him look down at the phone and flip it open, placing it to his ear.
The Protocol (A James Acton Thriller, Book #1) Page 9