Deliberate Harm

by J. R. Wolfe

  “Of course. What next?”

  “You leave with Ms. Marsik, and we leave with the data stick.”

  “No one is killed.”

  “Not tonight—not if you do everything as directed.”

  “We will.”

  “Good.”

  The line went dead.

  “We thought we’d get a last minute call.” Imma returned the cell phone to the top of the chair’s arm. “And we did.”

  Both Bovra and Robert stood next to each other in front of the couch. They stared at her with eyes as wild as horses running from an approaching pack of hungry wolves.

  “They’ve changed the location of the exchange,” Bovra said, “just as we thought they would.”

  “You thought they’d do this?” Robert’s voice rose in pitch.

  “We guessed that they might.” Imma slowly stood, as if the effort involved climbing a steep cliff.

  “You can’t be sure about the intentions of terrorists,” Bovra said, “until they actually act. What did he tell you?”

  “The exchange will happen tonight at a charity event for African children,” she said.

  “So, we need to immediately tell Agent Stanton about the change in location,” Robert said, “so MI6 can set up their surveillance.”

  “Afraid not,” Bovra said.

  Robert’s square jaw dropped. “What do you mean? We have to save Chessa.”

  “They’ll kill her if we attempt to contact MI6 or anyone else,” Imma said. “We’ve been lucky so far, but eventually luck runs out. So we’re moving on to plan B.”

  “Doctor, I thought you wanted MI6 involved,” Robert said, his forehead creased in confusion.

  “That was plan A.” Imma walked with determined strides toward a coat rack that was next to the front door. She grabbed a floppy wool hat and heavy coat that hid her thin figure. She took off her loafers and put on a pair of military-style boots. To complete her ensemble, she took out darkly tinted sunglasses from the pocket of the coat. “I’ll go to Smyth Square and survey the building for the best entrance and exit points.”

  “Good,” Bovra said, “I’ll go with you.”

  She shook her head and opened the door. “It’s too dangerous for both of us to go. You stay here and prepare.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Bovra said.

  “Prepare what?” Robert asked.

  “Stan left me a few unusual and unique weapons before he left for Zimbabwe,” Bovra answered. “We need to get those ready. We should also find out more about this charity event. Robert and I can go online—” He blinked hard, deep in thought. When he refocused on Imma, his eyes burned with apprehension. “Imma, are you sure you want to go alone to Smyth Square?”

  “Positive,” she answered. “You have work to do here. I’ll return in plenty of time to get ready for tonight.” She quickly stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her.

  * * *

  “This is a crazy idea.” Robert plopped down heavily on the couch, his shoulders sunken in defeat.

  “Maybe,” Bovra said, “but crazy situations sometimes call for crazy solutions.”

  “Perhaps you should give the People’s Revolution the memory stick that has the schematics of the dirty bomb saved on it. They’ve developed one bomb already, so they’ll be able to develop another. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “I’d do anything to ensure Chessa’s safe release, so I’ve thought about it, believe me.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I can’t hand over the device to the PR even if I wanted to.”

  “What do you mean? You have it, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “What? I thought this Jager fellow had stolen the memory stick from the PR and given it to you for safekeeping.”

  “He did, but I destroyed it. No one should have the design for an effective dirty bomb.”

  “True enough, but this is a dangerous game you’re playing.”

  “There was no alternative,” Bovra answered firmly. “If the PR knew I had destroyed the memory stick, they would’ve killed Chessa.”

  Robert shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “She’s out there somewhere,” he said. “I lost my wife much too early. I couldn’t bear it if I lost my daughter.”

  “Of course.” Robert stood. “Well, let’s find out what we can about this charity—”

  “Do you see this?” Bovra pointed out the window of the apartment.

  Robert looked outside. “That’s a nasty fire. If they don’t put it out quickly, several buildings may go up. Do you see that crowd down there? Are they rioting?”

  He didn’t respond. The alarming spectacle unfolding before his eyes had left him speechless. Red-and-yellow flames ravaged a corner building and coiled skyward into bulging balloons of black smoke. A pack of fifty or more people dressed in jeans and hoodies ran along the street flailing their arms and throwing rocks. His attention, though, was diverted by a shiny object that sparkled on the arm of the maroon chair. “That’s not good,” he said.

  “You’re right about that,” Robert said. “London looks like it was attacked by a squad of drones dropping missiles.”

  “Not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Imma left her mobile. We have no way of contacting her.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “Come on,” Alec told Portia. “This way.”

  They scurried into a nearby alley, with dozens of other people, searching for safety. Barefoot women ran clutching their high heels and purses. Businessmen in dress coats and leather shoes gripped their briefcases and ran with the determination of Olympians. A father frantically pushed a baby stroller, while his wife followed behind holding their toddler.

  Staying to the side of the alley, away from the fleeing crowd, Portia sprinted with a smooth falcon-like glide. Alec kept by her side, his long legs carrying him in an effortless gallop while his braided hair bounced up and down in rhythm with the movement of his arms. They finally made it to the end of the alley and stopped. She took deep breaths and placed her hands on her hips.

  “Are you all right?” Alec asked.

  “I dropped my earplug in the taxi,” she said.

  “We can’t get it.”

  “I know.” She’d buy foam earplugs as soon as she had the chance. Hopefully, those would work. But right now, her only worry was getting away from this riot. She scouted their surroundings.

  They appeared to be safe, since the protestors were nowhere to be seen. But circumstances could change quickly.

  “Which way?” she asked.

  “North.” Alec took off his sunglasses and wiped the sweat from his brow. “We should keep moving.”

  “Agreed.” She started to run when she heard the sound of a traditional ringtone.

  “Hold on,” he said. “I may need to answer this.” Reaching to his side, he pulled back his wool coat and grabbed a cell phone that was attached to the belt of his golden-brown corduroys.

  “Can’t it wait?” she said. “This is a bad time to answer—”

  He placed his forefinger against his lips in a clear signal for her to be quiet. He put the phone to his ear. “It’s me old chap,” he said. “No, I’m in my hotel room…what…no, I’m alone… I see… Really? How did you find him? All right, don’t get excited. It’s not important that I know everything. I was curious, that’s all. What do you intend to do? Right. That won’t be a problem… In an hour… Maybe longer… Right… I’ll be there.” He ended the call with a tap of the cell phone’s screen.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “I need to text—” He abruptly stopped talking for no apparent reason and stared over her shoulder. His jaw dropped in shock.

  She wheeled around to see what had caught his attention.

  Billows of coal-black smoke smothered the sky. An explosion of screams and shouts detonated the air with an alarming mix of anger and fear. A mass of lanky men, no older than twenty-five, a
ll in jeans, knit caps, and sweatshirts, emerged from around the corner of a building and jetted toward them.

  Portia stepped off the sidewalk as they swarmed by, losing sight of Alec. Only a few seconds passed, when suddenly Alec screamed in raw pain. Goose bumps spiraled down her body. She frantically looked in the direction where she’d last seen him.

  There he was, sitting on the sidewalk clutching his midsection.

  “Agent Stanton!” She ran over to him and bent down on one knee. “Are you all right?”

  “Bloody bastard tried to stab me,” he said. “I managed to grab his arm, but he still sliced me. It’s not too deep, but I won’t be able to go any further.”

  Her mind spun. She needed to find Imma, but she couldn’t leave this man injured in the middle of a riot. He’d been trying to help her. She took off her wool scarf, folded it, and handed it to him. “Put this on your wound,” she said.

  He pressed the makeshift bandage against his side. “This is a pig’s breakfast,” he said. “Look over there. My mobile is on the sidewalk, and the screen is crushed. We don’t have much time. Dr. Thoms and Bovra Marsik are in imminent danger.”

  “What’s happened? Does it involve Riley?”

  “Yes.” He grimaced. “Riley just called to tell me that he’s discovered that Bovra Marsik is with Dr. Thoms at an apartment not far from here. He’s headed there now. He wants my help in convincing Bovra Marsik to tell him where he’s hidden the flash drive that contains the schematics for the dirty bomb. He’s willing to use any and all force on both of them.”

  “Riley won’t make it inside, though. The apartment must be under surveillance by MI6.”

  “It was. Riley told me that all law enforcement officials, including our agents who were assigned to watch the apartment building, have been redirected to stop the riot. He’s probably right.”

  “So Imma isn’t being protected?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh my God. I have to get to her before Riley does.”

  Alec shook his head. “Do you have a phone we can use? I’ll call headquarters. They’ll send a unit over to the apartment complex once I explain to them the urgency of the matter.”

  “I don’t have a cell phone. Imma told me to leave it at the Tower of London. She was afraid Riley could use the phone’s GPS to track my whereabouts.”

  “Dr. Thoms was right. Still, this is quite inconvenient.” He studied Portia carefully. “How long were you a special agent in the United States Army?”

  “Long enough,” she said.

  “You must be a good shot.”

  “Of course.”

  “Riley’s dangerous.”

  “So am I.”

  “Excellent. He plans to arrive at the apartment in an hour. That gives you time to get there and get them out. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “The address is 555 Edward Court, fourth floor, apartment four hundred and fifty-five. The building is five blocks away.”

  “Which direction?”

  “Northeast. And you’ll need something before you go: attached to my ankle is a Ruger LCP.”

  She blinked. “That’s a 380 auto.”

  “I knew you’d know your weapons. Take it.”

  She reached underneath his pant leg and unfastened the Velcro straps of the holster holding the pistol. She secured the rig to her left ankle.

  “I know you and Riley are close,” Alec said. “He saved my life once, and I’ll always be grateful, but gratitude has its limits. Listen carefully.” He took a deep breath as though he were preparing to dive underwater. “If you encounter our friend, kill him. Can you do that?”

  The scar Riley bore on his cheek, a permanent reminder of his bravery during the Iraq War, flashed in Portia’s mind. “Why?”

  “He won’t hesitate to kill you and Dr. Thoms, I promise. He only cares about the memory stick, which means only Mr. Marsik has value to him now. And once he gets what he wants, he’ll kill Marsik as well.” Alec grimaced again and clutched his wounded side more tightly. “We can’t let Riley get the memory stick. He’ll turn it over to the Golden Triangle.”

  “I should go,” she said. “Will you be all right?”

  “Of course.” He straightened his back and lifted his chin. “Good luck.”

  She squeezed his shoulder and took off running. She glanced at the over-sized wristwatch Altan had given her. Within a few minutes, she’d be at the apartment complex. That meant she needed a plan and fast.

  “Portia!” a familiar and welcome voice yelled behind her. “Wait for me.”

  She abruptly stopped and whipped around. She could hardly believe her eyes.

  Altan was racing toward her.

  “Thank God it’s you,” she said. “How’d you find me?”

  “It’s a long story,” he said. “I’m just glad you kept wearing that wristwatch.”

  “Imma is in serious trouble.” She casted aside his odd remark about the wristwatch for more pressing matters. “I’m heading to her apartment. It’s five blocks from here.”

  “How did you find out where she’s hiding?” he asked.

  “We don’t have much time. I’ll fill you in on the way there.”

  “Good. I have something to tell you too.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Exhausted from the surreal pandemonium she had escaped, Portia stood next to Altan in a long hallway near apartment 455. They were alone. All the apartment doors were painted an eye-popping turquoise with ornate brass doorknobs. Glass lantern chandeliers in the hallway cast eerie shadows on the unadorned walls.

  Portia nervously twisted her engagement ring between her right thumb and forefinger. The creepy stillness was either a good sign or a bad sign—she wasn’t sure which. All she knew with any certainty was that an hour hadn’t passed since she’d left Stanton. That meant Riley wasn’t here, at least not yet.

  She took a step forward.

  Altan grabbed her arm. “Not so fast,” he whispered. He positioned himself next to her. “Look.” He pointed at the apartment door.

  Nothing seemed amiss. She looked down at the cream carpet. A deep red stain oozed underneath the door like outstretched fingers.

  She was suddenly light-headed. Someone had obviously been seriously injured, if not killed. Was it Imma? Please not—

  “My dear friends,” Riley said from behind her, “I wish we weren’t meeting like this.”

  She spun around. “Don’t tell me that you killed—”

  “Imma?” Riley aimed a Colt .45 at them. “How could I? She saved my life. I’m afraid this was Mr. Montgomery. He tried to leave the apartment prematurely.” He focused his gaze on Altan. “Give me your weapon.”

  “I’m not armed,” Altan answered.

  “You’re a bad liar.” Riley tilted his head to the side. “Please cooperate. I don’t want to kill either of you.”

  “This situation can be righted,” Altan said. “You used to say that not every bad event had to be disastrous.”

  “I used to talk about damage control,” Riley said, “and I meant it, but maybe I was wrong.”

  “We served in Iraq together,” Portia said. “That should mean something.”

  “It does mean something,” Riley answered. “You have to believe me. I had hoped for a happy ending, but those just don’t seem to exist anymore.”

  That was a depressing view and wholly unlike the Riley she knew. She had thought he was happy and content, particularly with his wife and infant son. “We can all walk away from this alive,” she said.

  “I wish that were the case,” Riley said in a low voice, “but the stakes are too high. Put your hands on the wall, Altan.”

  Altan ran his fingers through his short brown hair. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead, he shook his head, turned around, and placed the palms of his hands flat against the wall. Riley reached out and swiftly patted down his body, stopping on his right side. He reached under Altan’s down jacket and took out an automatic pistol
from his shoulder holster.

  Riley placed the weapon in a pocket holster secured to the belt of his dress pants. “Portia, please give me your gun,” he said.

  He’s only guessing, she thought. The Ruger that Alec had given her was invisible under her pant leg and secured just above her ankle. Should she tell him she was armed? “I’m not carrying a weapon,” she said. Now was the time for guts and a little luck. She raised her arms above her head. “You can search me.” She watched his movements closely.

  Riley’s short black hair, usually perfectly gelled, was windblown. The scar on his cheek, which should’ve shown as a hero’s medal, now appeared as nothing more than a nasty gash that had healed. Yet, his almond-shaped eyes seemed to radiate with compassion. An unexpected swell of hope lifted Portia’s spirits. Perhaps Riley hasn’t lost his soul, she thought. Maybe we can get out of this.

  But Riley’s eyes abruptly dulled, as though a switch had been turned off. Maintaining his aim on her, he used his free hand to cursorily pat down her upper torso. He stepped back. “Go inside,” he said. “Both of you.”

  What had just happened? He should’ve examined Portia’s legs for weapons. Why didn’t he do a thorough job? “All right,” she said, slowly moving toward the door. “No problem.”

  “We can find a solution,” Altan said.

  “You’re right, of course,” Riley answered, “but the problem is that every solution involves a bad ending for someone.”

  Portia took a deep breath. How could she argue with Riley’s realistic assessment? She couldn’t. Besides she didn’t want to waste the energy. She opened the door. Carefully avoiding the pool of blood below her boots, she walked inside.

  There was a small foyer that had an antique bench and coatrack. A striking oil painting of a dazzling, tall brunette model dressed in a mid-length evening dress and walking down a runway hung on the wall.

  With Altan by her side, Portia forced herself to inch ahead. Riley’s breath was hot on her neck. They entered the living room. Her jaw dropped at the horror that greeted them.

  A man with a full head of silver hair sat in a maroon chair near a window overlooking the street, his arms fastened behind the back of the chair. His ankles were tightly bound by blue duct tape. His eyes and cheeks were bloody and terribly puffy from a bad beating that was clearly Riley’s handiwork. He stared at Portia with tears that ran down his cheeks. He whimpered and no doubt would’ve sobbed but for the black sock that was stuffed in his mouth.