Recall Zero

by Jack Mars

  “On second thought,” he muttered, “maybe we just can’t see the forest for the trees.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Alan wrenched the wheel. The sprightly Italian car reacted instantly, making a sharp left that would have had any SUV rolling on its side.

  “Were you followed?” Zero asked him. It was the only thing he could think of in the moment, that Reidigger had been tailed. But Alan was more careful than that… at least he had been in the past. Maybe it wasn’t just Zero who was out of practice.

  “Of course not!” Reidigger hissed through clenched teeth. He directed the car toward downtown Liège. “It’s just a couple of cop cars. They must have been in the vicinity when—”

  A black sedan darted out from between two old stone buildings, trying to cut them off. Reidigger swore as he swerved to avoid it, but he overcompensated on the pull. “Hang on!” he roared, and then he yanked the emergency brake as he counter-steered.

  Zero was thrown to the other side of the back seat as the Italian car spun, wheels screaming in protest, turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees before aiming straight again. Alan shifted and slammed the accelerator and they darted forward, leaving the black sedan in the dust.

  Zero looked out through the back windshield. One of the black car’s windows was down, and behind it he saw a man in a suit speaking into a radio. Not just the cops. Could have been Interpol. Or the CIA. Or even the Russians.

  Whoever it was, it meant they were in much more trouble than previously realized.

  Karina pulled out the Beretta. Zero opened his mouth to protest—to remind her not to shoot at police or unidentified authorities—but the image of Veronika’s dead, ashen face was burned into his consciousness. He had little doubt the people chasing them would do the same to them given the opportunity.

  Zero glanced back again to see that it wasn’t just the two cop cars chasing them. The second black sedan they’d eluded had joined in the hunt, as well as a man on the back of a motorcycle.

  “That’s not good…” he muttered as the sports bike roared ahead of the other pursuers. “Alan, company!”

  “I see him!” Reidigger swerved left and right on the boulevard, cutting off the motorcycle as it tried to get alongside them. The dark-helmeted driver pulled an automatic pistol, steadying the bike with one hand.

  “Let him get up next to us!” Zero instructed, one hand on the door. Alan did so, straightening the Italian car and letting the motorcycle come up on their right bumper. “Brake!” he shouted, and at the same time he threw the door open. Reidigger stomped the brake pedal; the motorcycle crashed into the rear passenger door, tearing it right off the side of the car. The driver hurtled off the bike, limbs flailing as he sailed about twenty yards before smacking into the pavement so hard the helmet cracked in two.

  Alan spun the wheel as he shifted and punched the gas again, now heading in the opposite direction—directly toward the three cars tailing them, playing a game of chicken as they spanned the road, blocking them from passing.

  Karina sucked in a breath. Zero closed his eyes and reminded himself that he trusted Alan with his life.

  Reidigger grunted again and yanked the steering wheel. The responsive Italian car careened sideways, righted itself, and flitted down an alley so narrow there was barely six inches of room on either side.

  “You are insane,” Karina said breathlessly as she watched stone facades fly by her window. “You know this?”

  “It’s been said.” They zoomed out onto the parallel street. Luckily traffic was light, or else the small car would have been obliterated as Alan skidded out and crossed two lanes. Zero glanced around; they were in the oldest section of Liège, where medieval architecture and cobblestone still stood against the test of time.

  They’d evaded the police cars and the black sedan, but the flashing blue lights behind them told him that there were plenty more on the way. “We’ve got two more cruisers on our tail,” he warned.

  “On it.” Alan piloted the car artfully as they crested a small hill, the front wheels leaving the asphalt for a moment, and down again toward a roundabout. “One of you two want to do something about our guests…?” he suggested as they entered the circle.

  Zero rolled down the window and pointed the Sig Sauer at the oncoming police cars with his left hand. As they rounded the curve that put them parallel to the cruisers, he fired three times, aiming for the tires.

  The shots threw up sparks as they hit pavement or metal. His aim was off. Guess I’m a little out of practice firing from moving cars.

  Karina muttered something in Ukrainian as she rolled down her own window, a line that generally translated to, “If you want something done, do it yourself.” She climbed halfway out the window, practically sitting on the door frame as she aimed the Beretta over the roof of the Italian car.

  Alan weaved skillfully in and out of the two lanes of traffic, cutting off other vehicles as they honked and shouted at him in French and Dutch. He smashed down the accelerator so that they came up on the cruisers’ tail, rather than the other way around.

  The Beretta barked once, then twice, the report of it alarmingly loud even from outside the car. A shot hit the rear tire of the closest cruiser; the car wobbled and spun, smacking into the other police car. They both skidded sideways. Alan swerved into a controlled skid and they slipped past them, even as the two cop cars whirled in an about-face. Oncoming traffic screeched their brakes, some cars slamming into the cruisers while others jumped the curb to avoid a collision.

  Alan took the next exit out of the roundabout and sped off down the street.

  “Nicely done,” Alan said as Karina climbed back into her seat.

  “Thank you.” And then lower she added, “My sister taught me to shoot.” She twisted in her seat to make sure no one else was pursuing them before asking, “So, what is the plan now?”

  “Don’t look at me,” said Reidigger. “I’m the driver, not the plan guy. You’ll have to defer to the back seat for that.”

  Zero was still trying to get over his three missed shots. He wasn’t bitter that Karina had done it herself, but that his aim was so off.

  “Well?” she asked him pointedly. “Plan? We cannot simply drive to Chaudfontaine in this car. We’ll need another, something inconspicuous.”

  “Yeah,” Zero murmured. But he was barely paying attention. He was looking between the seats, through the front windshield.

  About a hundred yards ahead of them and closing fast, a man was crossing the street. He stopped halfway, as if oblivious to the car speeding rapidly toward him. “Alan, watch for that guy…”

  “I see him.” Reidigger gripped the wheel, ready to swerve around the guy if necessary.

  But as they drew nearer, the man turned directly toward them, and hefted something up to his shoulder.

  “Down!” Zero shouted. He ducked low and covered his head with his hands as a burst of automatic gunfire pounded the car. The windshield shattered. Bullets smacked the hood and broke the headlights. Reidigger cried out in pain and surprise.

  The tires shrieked as the car slid sideways. The assault kept up, glass from broken windows raining down over Zero as the man in the street emptied a full clip into the tiny Italian car. He dared to look up just as the firing stopped—just in time for the car to slide to a stop, the rear bumper smacking into their assailant with a bone-crushing impact that sent him bouncing across the pavement twice.

  Zero breathed hard. His heart pounded in his chest as he looked around. It didn’t seem like there was anyone rushing toward them; no shouts, no guns firing, no footfalls smacking the asphalt.

  “Alan! Are you hit?” he asked urgently.

  “Yup,” he grunted. One thick hand was clamped near his shoulder, blood eking between his fingers. “Not too bad though. I think it bounced off my collarbone.”

  “Broken?” Zero asked as he tore off his jacket.

  “Probably.”

  He passed the jacket to Karina, who
leaned over Alan and tied it around his shoulder and midsection in a makeshift sling.

  Zero pushed the car door open and climbed out carefully, Sig Sauer ready in his hands. Sirens screamed from a short distance; they had a minute, tops, to get clear. He looked around desperately, and then pointed. “There! Let’s go.”

  Across the street from them was an ancient cathedral, its stone façade almost white from centuries of sun-bleaching, two tall spires rising from either side of a dome-shaped ceiling.

  Zero helped Alan out of the car as Karina covered them with the Beretta.

  “Wait!” Alan protested. “The trunk. There’s a bag of gear.”

  Zero hurried around to the back of the car. The impact of striking the man in the street had thrown the trunk open. He noted with a grimace the bloody dent in the rear fender as he hefted a black duffel bag from the trunk.

  Nearby, the man who had fired upon them groaned. Zero paused; he couldn’t believe the guy was still alive after taking a hit like that.

  “Ty…” the man stammered. There was blood leaking from his lips, his nose, his ears. Judging by the state of his impacted torso, there was a lot of internal bleeding going on. “Ty sobira…” He coughed violently and gasped in pain.

  Russian. The man was speaking Russian, or trying to. “I’m going to what?” Zero asked him.

  “Zero!” Karina shouted as she helped Alan to the cathedral steps. “Let’s go!”

  The man sneered as he spat in Russian: “You are still… going to die.”

  Zero fired the Sig Sauer once. His aim was spot-on this time as the bullet entered the man’s forehead, more to put him out of his misery than to silence him.

  He quickly followed the others toward the cathedral entrance. Over his shoulder he saw the flashing blue lights of police cars. He doubted they’d be alone.

  As he passed through the stone archway, he glanced up toward the sharp spires that reached for the bright mid-morning sun. He tried to tell himself that they would hide here, just for a short while, long enough for the police and the Russians and whoever else was after them to move on.

  But he knew that wasn’t true. This was where they’d have to make a stand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Zero pushed the heavy door closed behind him with a resonant boom and hurried across the narthex to the wide nave, its vaulted ceiling high overhead painted in a Biblical scene that he didn’t have time to appreciate. Instead he surveyed the layout. It was a fairly standard cathedral; beautiful, to be sure, but built in accordance with the rules by which such places were built in its time. The entrance faced the west. The chancel, which held the altar at the far end of the nave, was to the east. Projecting to the north and south were stubby transepts, wings of the nave that formed the cross-shaped floor plan on the cathedral.

  It was less than ideal, but it had been a spur of the moment decision to take cover in there. It was open, with few hiding places but fewer places to be ambushed.

  Karina and Alan were nearly at the front of the church, jogging past rows and rows of wooden pews far older than either of them, heading toward the slightly raised chancel. The altar was a simple one, a table bearing a gold tablecloth and adorned with a few dozen candles in holders that might have been expensive once, but were now mostly obscured by dried melted wax.

  Behind the altar was an enormous mural of the crucifixion, twice as tall as Zero was. How apt, he thought wryly.

  “This way,” Karina panted, tugging on Alan’s sleeve. “There may be a back door…”

  “Ow! Stop pulling,” Alan grimaced.

  “Wait,” Zero said as he jogged after them. He stopped between the elevated chancel and the first row of pews and set the heavy black bag down. “Alan, let me see that wound.”

  “Eh. I’ve been shot plenty before.” Reidigger tried to wave it off, but winced in pain.

  “Shut up, let me see.” Zero carefully peeled aside the jacket-turned-sling and checked the shoulder. It looked like Alan was right; the bullet had broken skin and definitely cracked bone, possibly even fractured it, but it wasn’t bleeding badly and nothing major had been penetrated. “You’re lucky.”

  “Lucky?” Alan scoffed. “I’m the only one that got shot…”

  “Excuse me!” Karina interjected. “Can we please find a way out now?”

  Zero shook his head. “We can’t risk it. They’re going to have us surrounded in moments. They’ll be watching every street. They’ll search every building.”

  “Then what did you have in mind?” Karina asked.

  He unzipped the bag and nodded appreciably. There was an array of gadgets in the duffel, but right on top was a most welcome sight—a Heckler and Koch MP5, a German-designed submachine gun that fired 9x19-millimeter Parabellum rounds with an effective firing range of two hundred meters.

  “You must be joking,” Karina said flatly as he hefted it. “Here? In a church?”

  “I don’t see much of a choice otherwise. We make our stand here. If we can punch a hole through whoever’s coming for us, we can get out.” He almost believed his own lie. If there was any chance of escape, it would be Karina and Alan making the run for it while he caused the distraction.

  “What do you mean, ‘whoever’ is coming for us?”

  “That guy outside with the AK was Russian,” Zero said. “And that other car likely was too. I don’t know who’s out there, but it’s not just local Belgian cops.”

  “Great,” Karina muttered. “Give me a gun. I’m almost out.”

  “No.” Zero shook his head firmly. “You need to find a place to hide until you can make a run for it—”

  “My sister is dead by their hands,” Karina said forcefully. “And I will fight.”

  “Hand me one too,” Alan grunted. Zero opened his mouth to protest, but Alan waved a hand. “Save it,” he insisted, shouldering him aside and stooping for the bag. “These are my toys, anyway.”

  Zero grinned. He knew that Alan wouldn’t just sit idly by. “Looks like you raided Bixby’s lab.”

  Alan shrugged. “I might have.”

  The grin disappeared. I was joking, he was about to say. But then he heard a soft gasp from behind them and spun. The MP5 was up instantly, and he very nearly squeezed the trigger on the unsuspecting cleaning lady that stood in a doorway near the north transept. She was at least seventy, her hair white and tied in a bun, her hands still in yellow rubber gloves.

  “Pardon,” she murmured quickly as her eyes fell on the gun in Zero’s hands. Sorry. She took a small step backward as she said in French, “I will just go…”

  “Wait,” Zero called back in her native tongue. “Is there anyone else in here?”

  “Non. J-just me.” Her voice was tiny and terrified, but echoed through the wide nave.

  He gestured toward the door she stood in. “What’s back there?”

  “Only the vestry. And restrooms.”

  “Merci.” He pointed toward the main entrance to the cathedral. “Go. Hurry.”

  She nodded fervently and scurried along the edge of the nave toward the rear of the church, keeping her head low and muttering a prayer. Zero watched carefully as she reached the door, and he craned his neck to see outside as she pulled it open.

  His line of sight was obscured, but he definitely saw a multitude of blue flashing lights and men scurrying about. He heard a few shouts as the police surrounded the building and got into positions.

  They know we’re in here.

  He dashed to a tall stained glass window in the south transept and peered out through a yellow pane. Outside there were no fewer than five police cars blocking the street—but they weren’t alone. Several black sedans and SUVs had arrived as well.

  Always black, he noted dismally. Why are they always black cars?

  Men in suits and sunglasses spoke heatedly with the Belgian police, gesturing with their hands toward the building. Zero wasn’t sure who they were, but it looked like they were attempting to pull rank. Then he saw that nearby, mi
lling about the black cars, were men with dark hair and dark jackets and blatantly armed.

  He didn’t like to stereotype, but he could make an educated guess of who they were just by the look of them. Bratva—Russian gangsters. Kozlovsky’s people.

  How did they find us so quickly? he asked himself in frustration. The only solution was that everyone was watching everyone—the CIA, the Russians, Interpol, anyone else who might be looking for them. No one trusted anyone, even those who were supposedly on the same or similar sides.

  It didn’t matter now. In moments they’d try to get inside.

  “Karina,” Zero said as he turned away from the window. “Take a position near the south transept. Watch that door.” He pointed to the dark archway past the southern end of the chancel; it was the only other door that could have led to another exit.

  “Alan, I want you near the front pew,” he instructed. “Take cover and watch the main entrance.”

  “Aye aye, captain.” Alan grunted as he knelt behind the first set of wooden pews, an automatic pistol in his left hand.

  Zero stepped up onto the chancel and took a position behind the tiered pulpit. It was chest-high and made of sturdy wood, possibly oak. It would stop a few bullets, it seemed, but it wouldn’t last long against an assault weapon.

  “Return fire,” he told them, “but don’t shoot to kill. We’ve got a lot of misinformed cops out there that have families at home.” He caught shadows slinking past the stained glass windows to the south. “Karina…”

  “I see them.” Her grip tightened on the French carbine she’d grabbed from Alan’s bag.

  His gaze flitted around the huge, empty cathedral as he thought about what he would do in their situation, if he was the one outside. The back door is their only option. No way would they risk an assault through the main entrance. And they would have to avoid destroying any part of the centuries-old church.