Overwatch

by Marc Guggenheim

  * * *

  Shit, a voice inside Donovan’s head screams. He can feel his temper and frustration rise despite his training. The coppery taste of bile infiltrates his mouth as a corner of his mind wonders how anyone could be as lucky as Alex Garnett. This was supposed to be a quick, clean kill, no fuss, no muss, in and out, but it’s rapidly turning into a clusterfuck of epic proportions. It doesn’t help that those proportions would multiply exponentially should Donovan’s bad luck be increased by the arrival of civilians. Then he would truly have a disaster on his hands and would have little choice but to abandon the op. His orders didn’t include authorization to engage civilians. No level of collateral damage is acceptable here.

  * * *

  Alex’s hand shoots forward to punch the engine’s start button. The Lexus’s 3.5-liter churns to life. Alex has never heard a more beautiful sound. He throws the sedan into drive and pushes the accelerator all the way to the floor. The car lurches forward—taking out the side-view mirror of a neighboring Ford—and gets only a couple of feet before its front windshield explodes in a hail of gunfire.

  Alex should be dead. After all, automotive safety glass isn’t bulletproof. It is, however, extremely resilient, and the Lexus is enough of a moving target that all the bullets manage to do is fracture the windshield into a million pieces. The twin coats of high-impact plastic sandwich the pebbles of glass between them. The result is a latticework of microfractures that cover the entire windshield. What was intended as a safety measure designed to keep shattered glass out of the driver’s eyes now completely obscures Alex’s view.

  So he throws the car into reverse. He whips his head around to see through the rear windshield, only to realize that the initial volley of gunfire that started this nightmare has already done the same fracture-obscuring damage to the back window. Bullets rake the side of the car. Another round explodes the front left tire, causing it to violently lurch forward and skid.

  Alex swivels his head back to the front, and his eye catches something in the center of the dashboard. His face lights up. He has an unobstructed view of the Lexus’s reverse motion. It’s the feed from the rearview parking camera. Stomping on the accelerator and clutching the steering wheel, he whips the car around in reverse, using the parking camera to guide himself toward the exit.

  In the parking camera’s display, he catches a glimpse of his attacker diving out of his way. Alex isn’t trying to smash into the gunman, but he wouldn’t mind finding pieces of the assailant smeared on his rear bumper and beneath the car’s undercarriage when this is all over. For now, he’ll happily settle for escaping with his life. He whips the car toward the garage exit. The narrow walls grate against the Lexus’s side as the car careens up the garage’s exit ramp, scraping the narrow walls and leaving behind a trail of paint on the concrete before belching out from underground as if shot by a cannon.

  Cars honk in protest as Alex immediately finds himself in the middle of traffic. But he can’t stop. Not yet. For all he knows, his attacker has a car of his own and is following Alex up the parking-garage exit ramp right this moment. Accompanied by a chorus of angry car horns, Alex takes a few seconds to put the car in park—the Lexus sitting, vulnerable, right in the middle of traffic—so that he can shoot his feet forward and kick out the front windshield. He doesn’t succeed on the first attempt. Or the second. Or the third. Motorists curse and honk at him until the fourth kick succeeds in dislodging the windshield with an audible pop.

  Wasting no time, Alex settles back into his seat and yanks the gearshift into drive. He slams the accelerator and shoots off, leaving behind a shattered windshield and a mob of angry commuters.

  SEVENTEEN

  FIRST STREET NW

  WASHINGTON, DC

  11:00 P.M. EDT

  GRACE POUNDS on the steering wheel of her Volvo as it creeps along in traffic. A chorus of honking emanates from a few blocks up, punctuating the end of a particularly brutal day. Her eyes are red; her throat raw from protracted sobbing. And the traffic only exacerbates the fury inside her. She took some of that rage out on her steering wheel, but the exercise accomplished nothing except to add a sore hand to her list of woes.

  Just a few hours earlier, the NIH denied her research grant. While this had always been a possibility, it never seemed a likely one. A year’s worth of work, stress, and sleepless nights rendered instantly worthless. What made the blow particularly shattering was how completely unexpected it was. She didn’t think she’d get a decision from the NIH for at least another two months. They gave no more reason for the early execution than they did for their decision.

  Her cell rings. She knows it’s Alex even before looking at the phone. She decided not to call him with the news when the verdict came down. She wants to be comforted in person. He’s probably home already and wondering what’s keeping her. She keys the Bluetooth button on her steering wheel and answers in a pained, fatigued voice. “Hey.” It sounds like surrender.

  “Grace, it’s me. Are you all right?” There’s so much raw worry in his voice that she wonders if he heard about the NIH’s decision already. But he sounds grave. Like he’s worried about a person, not a research project. “I need you to listen very carefully…”

  “Alex?”

  “You can’t go home, all right? Do you understand?”

  “No.” She stops. “I mean, I don’t understand. Alex, what’s going on?”

  “I can’t explain right—”

  “Alex.” She cuts him off, an edge starting to darken her tone. “I’ve had a really lousy day. The NIH—”

  “Grace, please,” Alex implores. “You can’t go home. Someone just tried to kill me.”

  If it weren’t for the traffic limiting her car’s speed to three miles per hour, Grace would have totaled her car. “What? What are you talking about? Who tried to—someone tried to kill you?”

  “You can’t go home,” Alex repeats dogmatically. “It’s not safe.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “It’s not safe.”

  “Is this—” Grace stops herself because the thought she’s having seems so outrageous. “Does this have something to do with the bioweapon thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Yes. I’ll tell you about it in person. But you can’t go home.”

  “Then where should I go? Where can I go? This is insane.”

  “Remember that place we’d talk about when we’d talk dirty to each other? Do you remember it?” Grace starts to answer, but Alex stops her: “Don’t say it out loud. Just go there. Go there right now. As fast as you can—”

  “That won’t be particularly fast. I’m stuck in traffic.”

  “Just—as quickly as you can. I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

  “Alex, you’re scaring me…”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Just—it’ll be okay. It’ll all be all right. Don’t worry.”

  Grace shakes her head in disbelief. “You said someone’s trying to kill you.”

  “I’m fine now. I just want to make sure—I’m just taking every precaution to make sure you’re all right.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me too,” he says, but that doesn’t sound all that convincing. “Now throw your phone out of the window.”

  “You want me to do what?”

  * * *

  In his own car, Alex drives as best he can without the front windshield. Although the car lumbers along on only three good tires, the wind harshly whips at his face. With its GPS components and cellular technology, Grace’s phone is really nothing more than a glorified tracking device. The suggestion that Grace get rid of it strikes him as the kind of sensible precaution that would make Gerald proud.

  Shit. Gerald. Alex fights down a new tide of concern.

  He calls Gerald and is greeted with only voice mail. Shit. He endures Gerald’s outgoing message; he waits an eternity for the beep, then forces calm into his voice before speaking. “Gerald, i
t’s me. Alex. Give me a call back soon as you get this. It’s important.”

  Alex catches himself just as he’s about to follow his own advice and throw his own phone out the window. If he does, Gerald will have no means of getting back to him. He needs Gerald’s help, but more important, he has to tell Gerald that the CIA might have decided to make an attempt on Gerald’s life as well.

  A wave of nausea hits, making Alex’s head swim. Maybe it’s too late? Alex tries to force the thought from his head, but it persists. A few hours ago, Alex was worried about Gerald’s job. Now he’s worried about whether he’ll live through the night.

  * * *

  ENCORE SUITES

  WASHINGTON, DC

  11:36 P.M. EDT

  The Encore Suites is a strip-mall-style motel in one of the seedier sections of Washington, DC. A bend of two-story buildings arcs around the cracked pavement parking lot, inhabited by junkies, hookers, and junkie hookers. A neon sign bathes the area in a sickly pink glow boasting “a TV/AC in every room.” Another sign, smaller but equally neon, stresses that the Encore Suites is “an adult motel,” as if there were any doubt. The motel is between Alex and Grace’s condo and their favorite restaurant. The notion of some anonymous lustful assignation in one of the mirrored-ceiling rooms that can be rented by the hour has always been a favorite mutual fantasy. The motel itself is specific enough, the sex talk private enough, that it’s as secure a meeting place as Alex could devise.

  He chooses from one of several empty parking spaces. Grace hasn’t arrived yet. He looks around and immediately abandons his plan to have Grace check herself in to one of the motel’s rooms. He’d rather have her take her chances with the CIA. He rips open his wallet to find a hundred and eighty bucks in twenties and concludes that he’ll have to risk Grace using her credit card.

  Five long minutes pass before her Volvo rolls into the lot. Panic spreads across her face as she takes in the punctured tire, missing windshield, and unmistakable pockmarking of bullet holes that riddle Alex’s formerly luxury sedan. She races to Alex. He sweeps her up in his arms. “It’s okay,” he assures her. “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

  “What happened?”

  “Leah took me to the DCIA earlier this evening. He told me the whole Solstice thing wasn’t real, that it was just theoretical. But then the Ayatollah Jahandar—the supreme leader of Iran, a guy who’s more powerful than the Iranian president—he died. From a rare strain of swine flu exactly like what’s described in the Solstice file. I found out about it on my way home, and then when I got home somebody tried to shoot me with a machine gun.” Alex points to the bullet damage as physical proof. “He did this.”

  Grace shakes her head in stunned disbelief. “Are you okay? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Shaken up, obviously. But okay. Uninjured.” She turns away, her mind clearly churning. “What? What is it?”

  “This—this isn’t going to make any sense…”

  “Tonight’s set a pretty low bar for sense.”

  She takes a deep breath. “The NIH denied my grant today. Two months early. No explanation. That’s a coincidence, right?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure of anything right now. Except that what’s happening here is very real and very serious.”

  “You have to go to your father.” It comes out like a bleat, as if she’s been holding the thought in for weeks. “He can help you. He can help us. He can find out what’s going on, and he can stop it.”

  “I’m not going to my father.” Of this much, Alex is certain. He knows it’s irrational, but even with his life at stake, even with Grace’s life at stake, he can’t bring himself to go to his father, hat in hand, and beg for his help. “If what happened tonight happened for the reasons I think, that means the CIA tried to assassinate me on American soil. It means they assassinated the supreme leader of Iran with a bioweapon. I don’t know what they’ll do to my father. I don’t know who my father could turn to, who he could trust.”

  “Or maybe you don’t trust your father?”

  Alex frowns. “My whole life, when given a choice between the government and me, he chose the government. Every single time. If someone explained to him that I found out something I shouldn’t have, and if that person then convinced him that the best way to solve the problem was to make me disappear, I’d be gone. I can’t go to my father with this. He might choose them over me.”

  A range of emotions plays across Grace’s face. Fear. Confusion. But disappointment is the most evident. At that moment, Alex realizes he’s broken something between them, and he’s not sure it can ever be repaired.

  He pushes the thought aside. “Drive to Baltimore. Find an ATM and take out as much money as you can. Then try to find a motel, someplace that’ll take cash.” He gestures to their current surroundings, attempting to sound light. “But someplace a little nicer than this paradise.” Grace doesn’t smile. “If you can’t find a place that’s safe and will let you pay in cash, then use a credit card, but only as a last resort, okay?”

  “What are you going to do?” There’s a coldness in her voice. Or maybe it’s just fatigue.

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you. And you shouldn’t tell anyone where you’re going.”

  “I can’t. I threw out my cell, remember?”

  “Good point.”

  “I’ve got my laptop,” she offers. “I could e-mail you…”

  “No. No, they can track that. Don’t even turn your computer on, all right?” Grace nods, but the look in her eyes screams that she’s just as confused as she is terrified. “Give me twenty-four hours. Then I’ll figure out a way to safely get word to you.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know,” he snaps, but instantly regrets the outburst. “I don’t know,” he says again, softer this time. “I’ll figure something out. Twenty-four hours.” He moves in to kiss her, but finds only a tense cheek to meet his lips.

  “Think about calling your father,” Grace says.

  “I love you” is his only reply. With that, he lets go of Grace and watches her get into her car and turn on the ignition. He watches her until he sees the car’s taillights disappear into the traffic.

  Then he tries Gerald on his cell again. This time, thank God, he answers. “Alex?”

  “Hey, man. You okay?” He tries to sound calmer than he feels.

  “Yeah. Why shouldn’t I be? What’s going on? You’ve called me like a gajillion times.”

  Alex dreads the explosion of anxiety that he knows is imminent. “Gerald, someone tried to kill me tonight.”

  “No fucking way.” Gerald sounds genuinely incredulous. “No fucking way,” he repeats, but this time disbelief is replaced with his signature move: panic. “Oh my God. Oh my God. What are we going to do? What the fuck are we going to do?”

  Alex can hear Gerald pacing urgently around his apartment. The sound of slamming windows and doors is unmistakable. “I’ll tell you what we’re not gonna do,” Alex says as soothingly as he can manage. “We’re not going to freak out, okay?”

  “Too fucking late, hoss.”

  “Get it under control, Gerald,” he says, more forcefully this time. “You don’t want to die? Great. First step is to get your shit together.” This appears to calm Gerald down. The hurried sounds of Gerald going into lockdown mode have been replaced with calmer breaths and footsteps.

  “Hang on,” Gerald says. On the other end of the line, Alex hears the sound of a pill bottle popping open and the telltale shake of capsules. After Gerald swallows, he says, “I’ve got to get out of here. They could be coming for me next, hoss.”

  “Relax. If they were coming for you—”

  “I’d be dead already,” Gerald interrupts. He whispers something Alex can’t make out but that sounds like Shit, shit, shit. Alex waits for Gerald’s pharmaceuticals to kick in.

  “I need you to come meet me. My car’s totaled. You got a pen?”

  “I’m typing it into my phone…”

  Of cour
se you are, Alex thinks before giving Gerald the closest major intersection to the Encore Suites.

  * * *

  Tyler Donovan stands at attention and awaits William Rykman’s judgment. The equipment and monitors of the Overwatch Op Center hum behind them. It’s the only sound in the underground bunker apart from Rykman’s disciplined breaths. His gaze hasn’t moved off Donovan since the operative relayed the news of Alex’s improbable escape.

  “This is my fault,” Rykman says. These are the last four words Donovan expected to hear, but they serve to untangle the clench in his gut, a little. “I shouldn’t have ordered a public operation. We should’ve been subtler. I let my emotions get the better of me.”

  “Georgetown PD and the FBI have both been notified. The ballistics are untraceable, but the use of a suppressed M4 carbine should be sufficient to get them scrambling over each other for jurisdiction.”

  “What about witnesses? Video surveillance?”

  “Not my first rodeo, sir.”

  “Do we know where Garnett is?”

  Donovan shakes his head. “A locator wasn’t put on his cell because, well, to be frank, we expected him to be dead by now. But if he uses it, we’ll be able to pinpoint his location through cell-tower proximity.”