The Polaris Protocol pl-5

by Brad Taylor

  I said, “We gotta end this. Cops will be here soon.”

  The sedan was rocketing forward way too fast, reaching seventy miles an hour before it hit the next pack of traffic. It slowed and began weaving, still going much faster than was safe. We followed, causing brake lights to flash as the two vehicles swam through the traffic like sharks in a school of goldfish.

  We caught up with the sedan at the first traffic circle of the central district. The man popped out of the window again, aiming his pistol, and Decoy hammered the sedan’s right rear quarter panel. I saw the gun skip across the roof as the car was flung sideways into the traffic circle.

  The driver broadsided a vehicle, regained control, and exited the circle, back on Paseo de la Reforma, now separated from us by a small cluster of cars. All Decoy could do was pound his horn in frustration.

  We circled back onto Reforma and once again began to work our way forward, everyone straining to catch sight of the yellow sedan.

  Blood, his head hanging out the left window, said, “Got him. Five cars ahead. Florencia traffic circle coming up.”

  Continuing to weave, gaining ground, Decoy was slowed behind two cars driving the same pace. Frustrated, he jammed the accelerator, splitting the gap between them. He clipped the rearview of the car to our right, spraying the road with glitter before cutting back left, now two cars behind the sedan.

  They saw us coming and accelerated, attempting the same maneuver. The sedan ground into the car on the left, then jerked to the right, hammering that vehicle before springing back to the left like a pinball. The two wrecked vehicles on either side slowed, and the sedan jumped forward into the Florencia traffic circle, moving with too much velocity, causing it to skid sideways.

  I heard the squeal of tortured rubber and saw a panel truck, tires smoking, slam straight into the driver’s-side door of the sedan.

  Decoy jammed the brakes and I shouted, “Go, go, go!”

  The three of us exited at a run, Blood leaving Knuckles and me behind as he raced to the vehicle. I saw a man jump from the passenger side and sprint to the sidewalk, hitting Florencia and going south. Blood reached the vehicle, batting his way through the crowd. Knuckles and I diverted to the sidewalk, going after the man.

  Blood came on the radio. “Vehicle is a dry hole.”

  Which meant the man in front of us had it.

  He was a block ahead but not running as fast as we were, probably because his idea of physical training was smoking a hookah pipe. We closed to a half of a block. I saw him glance over his shoulder, his eyes bugging out of his head with the realization that we were going to catch him. He reached a cross street called Londres and ran straight into a market. I couldn’t believe my good luck.

  “Blood, Blood, this is Pike. Get your ass down here. He just entered Mercado Insurgentes. Take up your planned position.”

  Knuckles said, “Same for me?”

  “Yeah. I’ll go in and flush him.”

  Mercado Insurgentes was a shopping area a block long, full of stalls no more than five feet across and walkways smaller than three feet in width. It was a maze. It was also the place I had preplanned to meet the Ghost, had I needed an off-site instead of his hotel room, which meant we knew the area much better than the target did because we’d already conducted a recce. Unlike him, we knew it only had two exits: one on Londres, which Blood would take, and one on Liverpool Street, where Knuckles would position.

  Knuckles continued running flat out down the block, heading toward the southern Liverpool exit. I sprinted into the market, having little trouble finding my quarry due to the racket he was making trying to escape in the confined space.

  The vendors were starting to swarm the congested pathways through the maze, wondering who the jackass was that was knocking over all the souvenir Santa Muerte statues and handcrafted jewelry. I slowed, not needing to rush now. Not wanting to highlight myself like he was doing.

  I followed the noise, moving deeper into the market, taking turns by sound alone. Eventually, my target got smart and quit running blindly through the stalls. I started conducting a grid search, saying into my radio, “Are we set?”

  “North set.”

  “South set.”

  “Roger all. Time to do some quail hunting. Stand by.”

  I weaved through the stalls, peeking across and between the various tourist junk for sale, systematically going in one direction, then cutting back to another. Slicing the market into smaller and smaller sections of pie.

  I caught a flash of movement two rows over and peeked between a shelf of jade necklaces, the owner knowing better than to ask if I was shopping. I saw my target, standing still and facing the other way, a laptop in his hand. I held my finger to my lips and looked at the shopkeeper. She nodded, not saying a word.

  I exited, went to the nearest little alley of a walkway, and snuck behind him. He was now one row of shops over, and I could see the laptop through the back of another stall, behind a selection of Mayan calendars. He was up against a wall and could go no deeper into the market. I knew he was close to the southern exit, even if he didn’t. I decided to get him to the street instead of wrestling him to the ground here.

  I moved right to the edge of the stall, squatted beneath the calendars, and said, “Stop! Stop right there!”

  As expected, he jumped like I’d poked him with a cattle prod and took off running, paralleling the wall. I circled around and gave chase, letting him gain distance. “Knuckles, he’s five seconds out.”

  “Roger all.”

  I saw daylight, then heard the scuffle. I reached a small alcove that led to the street in time to see Knuckles bounce back as the man swung a small pocketknife at him. I heard the cough of a suppressed pistol, then the man collapsed, the laptop bouncing on the concrete.

  Exasperated, I said, “What the fuck? You took him down because of that little toothpick?”

  “Asshole was trying to kill me.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. I said, “Get Decoy here with the vehicle and lock that door leading in. You get to clean up your mess.”

  He grunted something and I grinned at him, snatching up the laptop, knowing we’d just accomplished the mission. Well, the half that mattered the most, anyway.

  I opened it and saw something that looked like an old-fashioned stereo face. I ran my finger over the track pad and a pop-up appeared, saying the computer was locked for “CareBear” and to enter a password or use a biometric thumb pad at the base of the keyboard.

  I waited until it disappeared, then studied the screen. All the switches and dials were in the off position, with an upper box labeled “Satellite Acquisition.” The number in the box was zero.

  So we’re good.

  I looked at the bottom of the screen, seeing another box labeled, “Next Disruption.” Beside it was a clock showing eleven hours and twenty-two minutes.

  And it was counting down.

  65

  The Ghost watched the fractured response from the security personnel at the museum entrance and knew checking the locker wouldn’t be an issue. The explosions and gunfire had caused some reaction, but for the most part the tourists wandering around the exhibits simply looked at each other in confusion. Which is exactly what the security personnel did. Eventually, they started moving inside, but apart from the initial fight at the temple, there was no chaos. No screaming or running amok.

  He assumed Pelón and the American were long gone, and he would have been as well except he needed the passport. He left the museum trailing another group of tourists, the woman’s pistol hidden in his laptop case.

  He knew he should have killed her, should have used her suppressed weapon to punch a hole in her head, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Her actions had been incredibly brave, and in truth, were something he never would have expected to see from an American. From an enemy.

  She had risked her life to ensure his safety. Had shown compassion he would have never given if their positions had been reversed, al
ong with the courage to use it in the face of great bodily harm. It was an act that had confounded him.

  Despite what she’d done, he knew he should have taken her life. She was still the enemy, and the cold, reptilian part of his nature was chastising him for his weakness. But he had been here before.

  A year ago, he had seen a close friend begin to crumble from the pressures of a mission and had understood he should eliminate the weak link if he wanted to succeed. But he could not, and because of it, he’d ended up in the hands of Mr. Pink.

  He’d often wondered what had happened to his friend, wondered if he was living a life of isolation in a strange American prison like he had been, but he had never regretted the decision. It was his choice to make, as with the woman, and his life was worth less than his honor. Flesh and blood were frail and fleeting. Honor was forever.

  He could kill without remorse, but he did so for a purpose. In his world, betrayal was a way of life, just like the mission he’d been given by Mr. Pink. The actions of the woman, on the other hand, were a surprise.

  She would return to hunt him, he knew, and regardless of her actions, he would still owe her a debt. And he understood he would never repay it. If she stood in his way in the future, if she attempted to capture him again, he would kill her just as quickly as anyone else. The dichotomy caused no conflict in his mind. It was what it was.

  War.

  The tourist group he was following continued on to the street, and he veered to the left, traveling downstairs to the parking area. He saw a pack of schoolkids waiting for a bus, all excitedly talking to each other and bouncing around, exasperating their chaperone. On the wall adjacent to the stop was a bank of small lockers, designed to hold umbrellas, purses, and wallets.

  His key said seventy-two. He ran his eyes down the row, found the number, and unlocked the door. He pulled it open and smiled. Inside was a Lebanese passport, just as promised.

  He took it and began retracing his steps to the park, this time staying away from the four-lane road and moving down the paths that meandered throughout, thinking about his next steps.

  The killer with the scarred face had taken his money, but he still had the credit cards. He could withdraw as much cash as they allowed as a cushion, then buy a plane ticket home with them. He thought for a minute and realized the trap he was setting for himself.

  The Americans knew the name on the card, knew the account, and they’d be watching. He would need to buy many different plane tickets to confuse them. If he bought enough, spread throughout several days, he’d increase his odds of escaping. Perhaps he’d head to Europe first, while they staged for a flight to Lebanon.

  The thought reminded him that he’d have to ditch the credit cards the minute he left Mexico. Buying the tickets here would be a risk, but using the al-Qaeda credit card at any final destination would be suicide. And he had no access to cash because that devil had decided to empty his al-Qaeda bank account. All he would have was the measly amount he could draw on the cards.

  The truth rankled him. Why should that man get all of his money? Why didn’t he agree to the purchase price?

  He reached the first intersection and saw a sitio taxi stand, for government-regulated cabs that wouldn’t attempt to rob him after he got inside. Not that that would matter. He was on the run now, and anyone who stood in his way, be it for petty cash or his capture, would die.

  He gave the cabby the name of a hotel he’d seen on his walking tours earlier, far away from where he’d stayed before with Mr. Pink and Mr. Black, in a decidedly less touristy part of town. He secretly hoped the cabby would try something. Give him some reason to vent his frustration.

  The man looked at his thick glasses and started to grin, intent on fleecing him for more money than a simple drive to a hotel was worth. Then he saw the eyes behind the glasses. He turned around without a word.

  In the back, the Ghost opened the computer he’d taken off of the table. On the screen was Pelón’s bank account, still open with the password in place. He stared at the Web page, considering his options. This man held the key to his future. The chance at a new life, with money that was rightfully his. He didn’t care if Pelón kept half, but it wasn’t fair for him to have it all.

  He tapped some keys, ensuring the password was saved in the computer registry and would automatically be filled in when he reached this page again. He knew he couldn’t transfer any money without the digital token Pelón had, but that was okay. He would see any transactions the man made and could track him down. Could find him.

  When he did, he’d have a discussion about sharing the money. About giving the Ghost what was rightfully his. Get him to use the bank’s digital token to transfer cash into a new account. One that would give the Ghost a new life.

  Pelón wouldn’t do so out of goodwill, the Ghost knew. After their brief encounter, he understood the man was like a rabid dog, looking for something to bite. And he had the skill to bite deep. The thought brought no fear. The Ghost knew his own capabilities well. If he didn’t want to transfer the money, it would be okay. All the Ghost needed was the digital token.

  If he had to pry it from the killer’s dead hand, he would.

  66

  The sicario watched the people exit the cab, none looking remotely like Arthur Booth. He checked his watch, seeing that he’d been waiting for close to two hours.

  It looked like his guess had been wrong, just as he’d been wrong about Booth’s having nothing to do with the team that had been chasing them. A miscalculation he regretted. Booth was the only connection, the only common denominator, and somehow they’d managed to find him twice. First in Tepito, then at the museum.

  Booth wasn’t working with the team; of that the sicario was sure. For one, during the attack in Tepito, after initially showing tenacious resolve, the man and woman on the team had abruptly quit the chase, letting them escape. Two, Booth had run away screaming at the museum. If he’d thought they were there to rescue him, he would have stayed, happy for them to appear. Instead, the assault had surprised him as much as anyone else.

  Even so, he was sure they were tracking him, and Arthur Booth knew the reason why. Had known they might be coming again and had said nothing. The sicario regretted not flaying the man for answers. Booth had lied to him, which was reason enough to kill him, but he also now had information that could never get out. He knew the sicario’s real name.

  The sicario watched one more cab arrive without result and decided to leave. Clearly, Booth wasn’t coming to the United States embassy for help. The sicario mentally kicked himself for allowing the man to keep his passport.

  Identification was necessary to enter the museum, and so the sicario had given Booth his passport just prior to entering. He’d kept the man’s wallet but had failed to retrieve the passport after they’d entered. Booth had no money or the ability to get any, but now he had the means to flee the country.

  Knowing Booth’s fear and lack of ability to do anything in the city — especially without any money — the sicario had figured he would show up here, spinning some story about being mugged or kidnapped and asking to return to America, but it looked like that idea had been misplaced hope. There had been a steady stream of people moving inside to the first security checkpoint, but none were Booth.

  Perhaps the team is working with the embassy. Maybe this is why he hasn’t shown. He is as afraid of them as he is of me.

  The man had to be somewhere, though, and the sicario understood his intelligence. While he might have been a blubbering mass of cowardice, he was smart. He wasn’t wandering the street looking for a handout. He was working hard to find another way to get home.

  How? How would he do that?

  The sicario stood and walked away from the embassy, flagging down an unregistered cab. He climbed in back, seeing two men in the front, both disheveled and dirty. He gave them the name of a store and settled back, thinking of the ramifications.

  If Booth were captured by the team or anyone else, the
sicario had no illusions that he wouldn’t give up his real name as soon as he opened his mouth. Doing anything to keep himself out of jail for his theft of computer secrets. That would close down the sicario’s only escape route. His island of protection from Los Zetas. He now had plenty of money to live on for the rest of his life, but he couldn’t use it if the American authorities were hunting him. He wouldn’t be able to get a driver’s license, open a new bank account, or do any of the mundane things required to live in the United States.

  Beyond that, Booth had lied to him and had fled. The sicario could not let that stand. He had one thing he did well, one thing that made him what he was, and Booth had spit on that skill. For that, he would die.

  The sicario was brought out of his thoughts when he felt the cab stop. He glanced out and saw they were nowhere near his destination. The cab had parked in an alley between two warehouses. The sicario understood why.

  The man in the passenger seat said, “What happened to your arm?”

  The sicario noticed his makeshift bandage had begun to leak crimson, the wound he’d received at the museum slowly seeping through.

  “I was hurt at work. Why did you stop here?”

  The man flashed a kitchen knife with a six-inch blade. “Hand over your money. Maybe I won’t carve your other arm.”

  The sicario closed his eyes. The violence followed him everywhere. He wasn’t the fox. He was the hen. An animal that attracted death. Why did they come for him? Was it God’s plan or another unconnected event on his path in life? A sign of what was to come or just an echo, like thunder in a storm?

  He dearly wanted to know.

  When he opened his eyes again, the man in front wavered, shrinking from the glare. The driver said, “Give us your wallet. Do it now!”

  The sicario reached behind his back, and the man with the knife relaxed. Instead of a wallet, the sicario withdrew his pistol, placed it on the forehead of the knife wielder, and pulled the trigger, spraying the windshield with blood and brain matter.