“Open the door, sir,” said the man in a firm tone.
I have to get out of this alive.
He glanced in his side view mirror and saw a gap in the traffic. With the car still in drive, he took his foot off the brake and hit the gas. The car’s electric motor thrust it into traffic with a force he hadn’t expected. Maybe that’s why Jim chose this car? Dodging in and out of the lanes, he tried to put as much distance as he could between him and his would-be passenger, whom he could no longer see in his rearview mirror. As he exited JFK he started to breathe a little easier. I’ve got to ditch this car.
He didn’t see the black Ford Expedition following several car lengths behind, his would-be passenger inside, watching on a laptop the red blip from the tracking device stuck to his door.
Milton saw a car rental place just outside the airport. He parked the Prius in a lot just down from it and walked back. As he entered the rental office, the Expedition pulled in and parked, its tinted windows blocking a view of the interior. Within minutes he was waiting out front for the car to be brought around for the customary inspection. He signed the paperwork and climbed into the Ford Focus. He gunned the motor and left the parking lot, a little disappointed in the power after having just experienced the extra torque available in the Prius’ bottom end.
The SUV pulled out and followed. Milton drove for about half an hour then pulled into a gas station. Inside, he bought some chocolate bars, chips and Diet Coke. Just for the taste of it. He asked for the bathrooms and the attendant pointed to the back. Milton left his bag on the counter and headed to the bathroom. He didn’t look back as the chime sounded at the opening of the entrance door.
Entering the bathroom, he cringed at the pungent odor of stale urine. He used his foot to kick the lid up, not wanting to touch anything, and relieved himself. Man, I’ve been needing this! He was just about done when the door to the bathroom opened. He looked over his shoulder, surprised because he was sure he had locked it.
“I’ll be just a minute.”
No response. He zipped up his fly and turned around. There were two slight popping sounds then a searing pain in his chest. He fell to the floor, one hand gripping his chest, the other trying to hold on to the sink. A few seconds later he was prone on the floor, bleeding out. The man calmly walked out of the bathroom, the chime on the door signaling his departure.
The life draining from him, Milton reached for the Blackberry on his hip and pulled it loose. With his last few ounces of strength, he typed a message into it, pressed Send, then collapsed, the device landing in the now large pool of blood. Bright spots of light flashed before his closed eyes as the life sustaining oxygen stopped reaching his brain. Then nothing.
Classified Airstrip
On a military airstrip twenty miles away, in a closed hangar at the end of the runway, members of Delta Team Bravo loaded equipment onto a Gulfstream V, while nearby, Dawson studied the screen of one of Red’s several laptops.
“Confirmed, BD, he just boarded.”
“Okay, wheels up in five minutes!” Dawson ordered. Outside, the wind whipped around as a Black Hawk helicopter touched down. The massive doors of the hangar opened and it taxied through. The Bravo Team members who had been tailing Milton jumped out and ran toward the G-V. The computers were packed up, stairs stowed, and the door sealed, leaving empty tables and a lone helicopter.
The G-V’s mighty engines powered up, filling the cabin with engine noise as they taxied out onto the airstrip. Dawson looked out the window to see a flatbed truck pull up to transport their chopper to base. There would be no record of it ever having been there. He laid his head back onto the leather seat and let out a deep breath, preparing himself for a few hours of rack time. Who knows when I’ll get the next chance? Around him, his men did the same.
Looking at the two new members of his team, Stucco and Casey, he nodded in approval. He hadn’t worked with them before, but knew from their records they would make fine additions. Mickey would be hard to replace; he was so gung-ho and loyal he would execute orders without question, now that he had learned his lesson with the Smitty incident. He was relieved to have found Mickey alive in the cave when they returned to search. It would take months of recovery, but he’d make it back—he was tough. Spaz was another story. Just thinking the kid’s name made him smile. That guy was the life of the party. He had already told Spaz’s wife about the unfortunate training accident. He hated having to lie to the families, but it was necessary for operational security. What made it worse was they knew they were being lied to.
But if all went well, they’d have their revenge by tomorrow.
The thought had a smile spread across his face, and he was asleep before they reached cruising altitude.
Somewhere over the Atlantic
Acton stared at the seatbelt warning light, waiting for it to go out as the plane climbed toward thirty-five thousand feet. Finally the gentle gong rang through the cabin. Acton immediately whipped off his seatbelt, rose and approached the nearest flight attendant. “Do you have any Internet terminals that I could access?”
“Yes, sir, on the upper deck there are several.” She pointed to a curving staircase a few feet away.
“Thanks,” he said as he rushed toward them. In Mexico he had only had about fifteen minutes to find out to whom he should send the skull. Once he had found out Professor Palmer was the foremost expert and was in London, he had headed for the courier’s office. Now he needed to complete his research.
As he neared the top of the stairs he noticed a row of terminals lining one wall. All were taken except one. He quickly sat in front of it. He brought up Google and typed in professor laura palmer british museum. Google responded with 197,000 hits. Shit. He scrolled through the entries until he found who he was looking for. One click brought up a picture of a woman with her hair tied back and sleeves rolled up, working on a dig site in the desert. Not bad. He scanned the biographical information.
Dr. Laura Palmer had several degrees, including Archeology, Ancient History and Literature. She was a Professor of Archeology at University College London, had held a position at the British Museum for over ten years and was well respected in her field. She lectured all over Europe and North America, and was currently on a dig in Egypt.
Egypt!
He scrolled through the document to try and find the date it had been written. Two years ago. Some more searching confirmed she was currently at the university lecturing as he had thought. He spent the next few minutes entering notes into his Blackberry on contact names, numbers and addresses he might need. When he was done he turned it off, knowing he wouldn’t get a signal here nor when he’d have a chance to recharge the battery. Next, he pulled up a map of the Heathrow terminal.
Now to figure a way out.
Fifteen thousand feet above him Delta Team Bravo slept in their G-V. Several thousand feet below, and about an hour behind, followed a C17 with their heavy equipment. Six hours behind, Jasper and Lambert sat in US Airways coach, trying to sleep while a baby wailed in the seat behind them. Finally Lambert gave up and opened his complimentary bag of mixed nuts. As he munched away he realized he was thirsty. Salty! He flagged the attendant and asked for a Pepsi.
“Is Coke okay, sir?”
He nodded. Same shit, different flies. She brought back the half-size can of soda and poured it into a glass of ice then placed it on his tray table.
“That will be three dollars, sir.” Now he realized the scam. He fumbled for his wallet and paid her, grumbling the entire time. Finishing his peanuts then his mini-Coke, he searched for more things to entertain himself with. He turned to Jasper.
“Sir?”
Jasper opened his eyes without raising his head and looked at his younger partner.
“What?”
“Any idea why Acton would run to England if he was innocent?”
“No.”
“Do you think he had something to do with it?”
“No.”
; Lambert nodded then grabbed the in-flight magazine and flipped through it for a couple of minutes.
“Sir?”
“What?” This time Jasper sounded slightly exasperated.
“Uh, nothing, go back to sleep.”
“You’ve woken me now, what is it?” asked Jasper, clearly frustrated with his underling.
“I was just wondering something.”
“What?”
“Have you ever been to England?”
“When I get my gun back I’m gonna shoot you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Washington, DC
Detective Wheeler had never worked on a case this high profile before, but now appreciated all the resources it granted him. They had worked through the night and were now running on adrenaline and Red Bull. Every minute of video footage from every store in the area had already been pulled and reviewed. They had the killer on tape but his pulled-up collar, pulled-down ball cap, and blacked-out shades rendered him impossible to identify. This had at least confirmed it was definitely not a random mugging. Billy had been targeted.
One wall Wheeler had run into however was the White House. They had refused to give him any information regarding the boy until he had placed a call to Guthrie. Fifteen minutes later, Wheeler had an appointment with Billy’s boss.
After clearing security, Wheeler and Schultz were led to a waiting area where they sat for several minutes before being shown into an office where they were greeted by the victim’s supervisor.
“Lesley Darbinger,” he said as he pumped both of their hands in a double grasp. “Pleased to meet two of Washington’s finest.” He motioned toward a pair of chairs in front of his desk as he leaned on the edge of it.
Wheeler sat in the chair and looked up at Darbinger. Classic assertion of power technique, always be higher than your opponent.
“We’re here about the death of one of your interns, William Guthrie.”
“Billy’s dead?” Darbinger’s shoulders slumped as his jaw dropped. “But I just saw him yesterday!”
“You didn’t know?” asked Schultz, surprised.
“No, I’ve been in closed-door meetings all day.” Darbinger looked at the floor, shaking his head, then looked up. “What will I tell his father? Does he know?”
“Yes, we’ve already notified the family,” replied Wheeler.
“How did he die?”
“He was murdered.”
“Murdered!” This seemed to catch Darbinger off guard. “Do you know who did it?”
Wheeler shook his head. “Not yet, but it appears to have been a professional hit.”
“Professional? What do you mean?”
“Military style,” explained Schultz. “Head held back exposing the jugular. Throat slit, left to right, deep. He bled out within a minute.”
Darbinger shook his head in disbelief. “This is terrible. Does his father know?”
“Yes, sir, as I said, I’ve met with his parents already.”
“Of course you did, sorry,” replied Darbinger. “I’m just a little shaken up. How can I help you?”
“Well, sir, Mr. Guthrie had started here Monday, and within his first week he is killed in what looks like a professional manner. We believe that’s too much of a coincidence,” said Wheeler. “Was he exposed to anything here that maybe he shouldn’t have seen?”
“No, he’s just an intern, he wouldn’t have clearance to see anything.”
“Well, just the same we’re going to need to talk to everyone. We’ll conduct the interviews here to make things easier for you,” said Wheeler.
Darbinger nodded. “Of course, I’ll see you get full cooperation.”
RAF Lakenheath, USAF 48th Fighter Wing
“Welcome to Lakenheath, sir. I’m Sergeant Berkin. The Base Commander has ordered me to take care of all your needs while you’re here.”
Dawson nodded at the sergeant who greeted him at the bottom of the G-V’s steps. Since Dawson was dressed in civvies, he forgave the “sir” and surveyed their surroundings. They had taxied to the far end of the tarmac, separate from the other air traffic and prying eyes. “Status, Sergeant?”
Berkin pointed to three Humvees waiting nearby. “These are yours to use while you are here. In the hangar behind us are the civilian vehicles you requested, a civilian chopper, and we’ve freed up this building over here for your men to stay in.” He pointed at a beat-up building several hundred yards away. “It’s unoccupied, but includes a rec room, comm room, and small infirmary. I’ve had it fully stocked. Should accommodate any of your needs.”
“Very good, Sergeant,” said Dawson. “Notify me when my C17 arrives.” He grabbed a handful of the gear the team had unloaded and headed to one of the Humvees. The sergeant ran after him.
“A C17, sir?”
“Yes, a couple of hours out. Make sure you have enough men available to unload it as well as assemble and arm an Apache.” Dawson was impressed—only a brief moment of shock registered on the sergeant’s face. He would have been told to follow orders, no questions asked, then to forget they were ever there.
He’s probably wondering what the hell black ops are doing in England.
Dawson threw the equipment in the back of one Humvee then returned to the plane for another load. Red approached him, carrying satellite communications gear. “When we’re done have the new guys Stucco and Casey take one of the civilian vehicles in that hangar and set up surveillance,” said Dawson.
“We’ll be up and running in fifteen minutes.”
The sergeant watched as the men unloaded the plane. One man walked by with a case of grenades. “Christ, are we invading?” he muttered.
“Sergeant!”
The sergeant spun toward the voice.
“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to use those two God-given hands to help us?” asked Dawson.
The sergeant gulped. “Right away, sir!” he yelped as he ran toward the pile of off-loaded equipment.
Heathrow Airport, London, England
The delay seemed interminable as Acton waited for the doors to open so the passengers, already jostling for position, could disembark. He sat quietly in his seat, waiting for the mass to flow forward. Eventually the door opened and the passengers shuffled toward it. Like cattle. No wonder it’s called steerage.
Acton eventually exited the aircraft and headed to baggage claim. After another eternity, his hockey bag emerged. He battled through a senior’s tour to get to the carousel, grabbed his bag, tossed it over his shoulder and headed toward a bathroom without looking around. He wanted to give the impression he didn’t think he was being followed—just in case he was.
Once inside he locked himself in a handicapped stall and unzipped the bag. He quickly changed his clothes, donned a hat and sunglasses, then took out several large shopping bags from the hockey bag. He folded the hockey bag as small as he could and placed it inside one of the shopping bags. Stuffing his old clothes into the remaining bags, he exited the stall, went to the sink and washed his hands. Then he waited.
It didn’t take long for someone to leave one of the other stalls and approach the sink. The well-dressed, slender man stood in front of the mirror adjusting his tie.
“Excuse me,” said Acton. “Would you happen to know how to get to Buckingham Palace?”
The man looked at him, surprised the universal etiquette of never talking in a men’s washroom had been violated. In a heavy French accent he said, “Sorree, but aye am a touriste ici as well.”
“Really? Where ya from?” Acton walked out of the bathroom with the man who he noticed hadn’t washed his hands, trying to make it look as if they were old friends to anyone who may be watching.
“Aye am from Neece,” replied the man, not making much effort to hide his displeasure at the situation.
“Really?” said Acton, uncharacteristically animated. “I’ve never been to France, myself. Don’t speak the language you see.” As they walked out of the terminal together, the Fr
enchman approached a cab. The cabbie popped the trunk and helped him load his luggage, then looked at Acton.
“Are you traveling together, sir?”
The Frenchman looked horrified.
“Sure, why not?” said Acton, handing over his bags. Before the Frenchman could protest, Acton climbed into the backseat. “Come on, mawn amy! Let’s get a move on!”
“The Dorchester, s’il vous plaît,” the Frenchman ordered with a scowl.
Much to the Frenchman’s further horror, Acton looked at him with an astonished expression. “Dorchester? You’re kiddin’ me! I’m stayin’ there as well!”
The cabbie pulled out into the early afternoon traffic, trying to stifle a smile. The Frenchman buried his face in the glass. Acton had a big, childlike grin on his face.
“This is gonna be great!”
Inside the terminal, a man in a business suit entered the bathroom he had seen his target disappear into several minutes before. He searched the opened stalls then looked over the tops of the closed ones, much to the annoyance of those inside. Not finding who he was looking for, he ran out of the bathroom, raised his wrist to his mouth and activated his comm. “He’s gone! The subject is not in the bathroom!”
The White House, Washington, DC
Rachel sobbed when Wheeler told her about Billy’s death.
“Did you know him well?” asked a worn-out Wheeler. They had been interviewing staff and interns all morning and he was already exhausted from being up all night. The drab, windowless room provided was not helping.
“N-no,” she sniffed, “I didn’t. Actually, I feel terrible about this, but the last time I saw him I called him a loser.”
“A loser? Why?” asked an equally tired Schultz.
“He had bumped into me in the hallway and spilled my coffee.”
“How’d that happen?” Schultz was now thoroughly bored. Spilled coffee? How much more of this crap do we need to listen to?
“He came running around the corner with a file and ran right into me,” explained Rachel. “I yelled at him and went to the bathroom to clean up.”
The Protocol (A James Acton Thriller, Book #1) Page 11