by L. T. Ryan
"Coming up in a few more miles," Mason said.
She continued staring out the window at nothing. "What?"
"The airfield."
The moment she dreaded, seeing Gerald again, was minutes away. Sasha didn't quite understand the apprehension she felt. She'd dumped him, after all. And then he'd quit the service. Just up and left. During their time together, which hadn't been all that long as far as relationships went, she'd never realized that Gerald and Mason were friends. For as bad as she was about her MI5 brethren, the male agents were ten times worse. Everything was a pissing match. Or so it seemed.
Mason turned onto a narrow road. The headlights washed over two strips of dirt and gravel, buffered by tall grass. Sasha rolled down her window. The humid air coated her, and she didn't care. It beat the dry air conditioning. The soft rumble of a plane engine could be heard. Ahead, the road curved through some trees. On the other side, she saw the source of the sound. An airstrip with a plane waiting.
Gerald climbed down after they emerged from the trees. He'd aged considerably since the last time she'd seen him some five years ago. At least, that's what she told herself.
She and Mason exited the car. He led the way to the plane. She'd already decided the less she said, the better. Exes were always awkward to deal with. Let alone one she abandoned after he proposed. Left him on his knees in her family's restaurant. And that was the last time she'd seen him.
"Sasha," Gerald said. "Good to see you."
She smiled, nodded, and continued toward the plane.
"Don't mind her," Mason said. "Cranky from the day's delays. Just know we both thank you for this."
"Not a problem," Gerald said.
Sasha stopped and looked back. "We should get going. There's a woman and child that might be in danger."
Mason leaned in and whispered to Sasha. "See, he barely remembers you. This won't be bad at all."
On board, Gerald completed his pre-flight checks, then said, "Go ahead and get comfortable. Gonna be a long flight."
Chapter 41
Upstate New York.
THE GULFSTREAM HUMMED amid a torrent of activity. Maintenance performed final checks and fueled the aircraft. Members of the crew boarded. Non-essential staff, obviously. The ones that mattered were already in on board, reviewing flight plans and settling in for the trip. The jet maintained a cruise speed of over six hundred miles per hour. It would take a commercial airliner eight hours to travel from Buffalo to Tenerife. The Gulfstream could do it in under six. Quicker if the pilot ignored certain rules that required commercial jets to stray no further than ninety minutes from land.
The driver - whose name Jack still hadn't caught - pulled into an unmarked parking spot and shifted the transmission into park before coming to a complete stop. The vehicle rocked back and forth, hard at first. Frank sat idle for a moment, staring at the jet. Jack followed his gaze. But his focus was on the men and women working around the craft. Every face had to look like it belonged. A single person out of place meant he had to take a different course of action. It wouldn't be hard, either. Frank had been sloppy holstering his weapon, and no time during the drive had he made an effort to correct the issue. All Jack had to do was secure the pistol. The driver would yield and do exactly as instructed, despite training that taught him not to. Things changed when the situation and danger was real.
It wouldn't come to that. Not today. Everyone passed the eye test, not that it hadn't failed in the past. But today was different. Despite their differences over the years, an understanding existed between Jack and Frank. They had each other's back. They stood up for one another. That's the way it was with men who'd been through the things they'd seen together. And the fact that they could royally screw each other over helped them co-exist.
"We should get going," Frank said in a solemn tone.
"You sound a bit broken up," Jack said.
Frank shook his head. "I just don't know where this is going. After we separate, you're on your own. You understand that, right? I can't help you from here out. I don't know if anybody will be able to. We're all on high alert now. I've got everyone staying in groups of two to four. Relocated spouses and kids."
All along, there'd been a suspicion that Frank knew more than he'd let on. Now Jack was sure of it. And he knew he'd get nothing else out of the man. As soon as he stepped foot on the tarmac, they were through. For now, hopefully.
Frank and the driver exchanged a quick glance.
"Let's get going, Jack," Frank said.
The men exited the vehicle. The driver stood beside his open door, one hand out of sight. Jack and Frank crossed the blacktop to the waiting Gulfstream. One man emerged from the fuselage. A second joined him. They descended the stairs, gazes locked on Jack.
"Who're they?" Jack said.
"Couple of my guys," Frank said.
"They coming with me?"
"Accompanying you, but they won't be getting off the jet with you."
"I don't need babysitters at forty thousand feet."
"Didn't say you did."
"Then why are they going to be on board?"
"Just to make sure you wind up where I want you to."
Jack slowed, allowing Frank to get a few paces ahead. One man stopped at the bottom of the stares. The other approached Frank. Jack glanced back, saw the driver approaching.
And then he heard the pop.
At first, it didn't seem like much. A stinging sensation in his thigh no worse than a basic bee sting. The warmth radiated outward in a spiraling fashion, knees and hip, shins and abdomen, chest, arms and feet. Then he began to feel both numb and heavy. He started forward, stumbled because his feet had turned to lead. Frank and one of the guys from the plane came toward him. Mustering his strength and focus, Jack reached behind his back and wrapped his concrete fingers around the pistol's grip, managing to free the weapon from his waistband. But he couldn't hang on.
"Hit him again," Frank said.
Another pop. Another sting, this time in the hamstring of the other leg. His heart whooshed in his ears. Hard. Rapid. It drowned out the Gulfstream's engine. His right knee hit the ground, followed by his right hand. The other leg extended backward and his free hand searched the ground for the pistol, like he was in some disjointed yoga position.
"Just relax, Jack." Had to be Frank. The other men didn't know his name. Except for the driver. Maybe. "This is for your own good. Just let go and we'll take care of you."
Cognizant thought faded fast, but Jack had enough of it left to know not to go without a fight. But he didn't have a choice. His supporting arm collapsed, as did his leg. He lay face down on the tarmac. The scorching asphalt singed his cheek. Probably. He couldn't tell after a couple moments. The pain faded. Everything faded. The sensation of weightlessness followed. Managing to open his eyes, Jack saw himself floating a few feet off the ground, then up the stairs, and finally into the fuselage. He was set down on a leather couch and strapped in.
Frank appeared in Jack's field of view. The man narrowed his eyes and reached out for Jack's shoulder. "It's for your own good. Trust me. Just let go."
And Jack did. He didn't have a choice but to let go and faded into the darkness.
Chapter 42
Tenerife.
THE WOMAN'S NAME was Hannah. Brett had learned that on the way to her room. He didn't want to know. It was always easiest when he didn't. Of course, he had no choice when it came to his actual target. But collateral damage, the necessary lives taken and pain inflicted, ceased to exist when nameless. The faces faded faster.
Hannah looked up at him. Eyes large and dark. She'd finally stopped trying to speak through her gag. It only took him telling her ten times that doing so was making things worse. He tried to answer all the questions she might have. Who was he? He didn't give more than a simple explanation: a government operative. Why her? She was in the way. What was he doing here? Sorry, but I can't answer that. Will I die? Not if you do what I say, when I say.
No
ne of his answers to her presumed questions appeared to help the woman. Tears welled in her eyes and streaked down her cheeks, coming to rest in the makeshift gag created from her dark red tank top. He actually preferred the color, should blood be involved.
Glancing at his watch, Brett performed a calculation in his head. The time didn't really matter as much as how long they'd been in the room: seventy minutes. Where were Erin and Mia? Hannah had said they were going for ice cream. She must've expected them to remain out for a while. Why else invite a stranger up? Wouldn't the risk of embarrassment if her employer spotted him in Hannah's room preclude the young woman from taking the risk? He looked over at her. She glared back. Perhaps not, he thought. Not with the alcohol, and the wind, and the ocean air. Caught up in the moment, she'd made a mistake.
Brett rose and approached her, mindful of her unbound legs. "If I remove the gag, do you promise not to scream?"
She gave no response. Continued staring at him.
"I'm only going to ask one more time. Do you promise not to scream?"
She nodded, once, then leaned her head back and to the side.
Brett took a wide berth, clear of her legs, and reached for the exposed knot. With a tug, he freed it and let the tank top slide off the young woman's face, onto her chest.
"You asshole," she said, subdued.
"What were you thinking inviting a stranger up? You had to have known something like this could happen."
She said nothing.
"Regardless, if you keep quiet and do everything I say, you're going to be all right. My purpose in being here has nothing to do with you."
"It's Erin, isn't it," she said. "Because of her aunt. Right?"
Brett said nothing. He held her gaze and showed no signs of emotion.
Hannah shook her head. "No. Not Mia."
Brett still said nothing.
"Look, do whatever you have to do to me. Not them. Not Mia. She's just a child." Hannah's voice rose. "Say something, you dick."
"Keep your voice down."
"Screw you."
He only had a few moments before he had to reapply the gag. "Where else were they going?"
"I don't know. She said ice cream, then a walk, then back here."
"A walk? You didn't mention that before. Where to?"
"The beach, I guess."
Brett shifted toward the window and split the drapes in the middle. The lights of the plaza faded on the paths that led to the ocean. By the time one reached the black sands, there'd be little to illuminate. He hadn't been concerned over the other man on the island simply because he wouldn't do anything in public. If anything, he'd follow Erin to her room and break in later. In which case, Brett would have already escorted them off Tenerife.
But on the beach, they were vulnerable. How far would they walk? Would they continue past the crowds that likely gathered around the beach access. He let go of the drapes. The room darkened a touch as they fell shut.
"Sorry to do this again," he said, reaching down for the tank top and looping it around Hannah's head. The girl kicked and bucked in the chair. Brett didn't blame her. He'd do the same, and a few other things that he was grateful she wasn't aware of. He cinched the shirt tight enough to prevent her from manipulating it and letting out a yell.
After a few minutes, Hannah stopped fighting and settled in. Did she really have a choice? At this point, if she toppled the chair over, he would leave her that way.
Brett stopped in front of the door and looked back at her. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but I've got to go look for your friends on the beach. I'm afraid they're in danger." He bled irony, but it didn't stop him from being convincing. "If I'm not back by morning, housekeeping will find you. Feel free to tell them anything you wish. I'll be long gone."
Chapter 43
Tenerife.
HOW HAD THE woman been so careless? To take her child off the beaten path, walking a mile away from the crowds located near the beach access. She led her daughter deep into the dark. It made Jared Aker's job easy. Relatively. A mother might fight to the death to protect her young. Or she might go along with him and do whatever he said. He'd find out soon enough.
The roaring waves simplified his approach. He had no concerns over being heard. Likewise, he didn't fear them looking back and seeing him, because what would they notice? A shadow against the blackness? Hardly.
The girl was his first priority. Take control of her, and the mother would follow as soon as she realized a 9mm was aimed at her daughter's head. At least as long as she felt the threat was real. If he gave any indication he wouldn't take action, then she might be inclined to do so.
At twenty yards away, Jared closed the gap between himself and the women in a few seconds. He grabbed the girl and pulled her back. Her screams were barely audible amid the wind and waves. But her mother, she heard. And she whipped around, eyes searching in the darkness, settling on the figures of Jared and her daughter. She lunged forward, but stopped at the sight of Jared's weapon. But whatever fear had been there vanished. The woman dove toward him, unleashing a violent scream. He drew back and whipped the pistol forward. The blow caught the lady on the side of her head and she fell to the ground. The little girl began kicking, screaming, fighting against him. She sunk her teeth into the back of his hand. Jared started to swing the pistol down, but stopped inches from her head. The blow could kill the child, and if he knew anything about the situation, the girl was worth ten times as much to him as the woman. He yanked his hand free and scooped the child up by threading his arm under hers.
The woman lay motionless on the ground. Jared pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shone it on her. Her eyes didn't open or flutter. Blood from a large gash on the side of her head pooled on the ground around her face. The little girl caught sight of her mother and shrieked. The yells faded to sobs.
Jared pulled out his phone and placed a call.
"I've got the girl. Mother is on the ground. Unconscious. What's my next move?"
"Where are you?"
"On the beach, about a mile north from town."
"OK. Continue north about another mile. I've got a resource there. He'll pick you up on the beach and get you off the island."
"Ten four." Jared paused, looked down at the woman bleeding on the black sand. "What about the mother?"
"She's useless to us. Kill her."
"Sir, I've got her daughter right here."
"Now you care? That didn't bother you when you knocked her out, did it?"
"I…"
"You fucked up. Now clean your mess and kill her, then get moving."
The call disconnected. Jared nearly flung his phone into the Atlantic. He stared down at the woman. She hadn't stirred. He could leave her here. Maybe she'd die. Perhaps someone would come along and take her back to town. The blow she'd received had done plenty of damage. Even if rescued, she might not be the same.
But if she was, that'd mean Jared's life would be at risk.
"I'm sorry," he said to the girl as he straddled her mother, turning the girl away and aiming down with his pistol. He tucked the weapon under his chin for a moment while reaching into his pocket for the suppressor. He threaded the device on the weapon, then took a few steps back. Took a couple deep breaths. Held in the last one. Squeezed the trigger. Twice. He didn't need to shine his light on her to know that the mother of Jack Noble's only child was now dead.
They didn't linger. Someone might have seen the muzzle blast from a distance and already be on their way to investigate. From far enough away, it might look like someone flashing a lighter. Or it might look like a gunshot. Either way, Jared wanted nothing to do with more liabilities. More people to kill. He jogged north with the motionless girl under his arm. He'd carried heavier loads during his career. She weighed less than a rucksack. Less than some of the weapons he'd used in the past.
Eight or nine minutes later, small dots appeared in the dark. White headlights. Jared stopped, crouched down, and waited for strobes of blue and red
to break through the darkness. But they didn't. The lights grew brighter and larger. He heard the four-wheeler rumble closer. Jared rose and moved forward. He pocketed his pistol in favor of his flashlight, which he flipped on and off, three times on, then nothing for a few beats. Repeated the process. The headlights flipped on and off in the same pattern. Jared held the flashlight in his mouth, switched on, and retrieved his pistol. He did not know the identity of the man sent to meet him. And he didn't care to. All he wanted was to make sure the guy was legit and had a plan to get him and the girl off the island.
The ATV halted in front of them. The driver switched the engine off. The sudden roar of the vehicle faded, and the wind and waves took over.
"Get on," the driver said. "I've got a boat docked two miles north of here at an inlet. She'll get us anywhere you want to go."
Jared adjusted his light toward the ATV. It had plenty of space. Two rows of seating. The rear large enough to accommodate him and the girl. He hefted her over his shoulder, then stepped over the crossbar, placing her on the seat first. Jared sat next to her, one arm around her shoulders, the other holding the pistol, aimed at the child. She didn't seem to notice. She made no movements at all. Catatonic described her best. He tried not to care. It was, after all, his fault. He knew the response he'd get to that line of thinking. Not your fault, son. They put themselves in this situation. It wasn't true. He knew it. But he had to believe it.
They continued north until they reached the inlet. Orange lights sparsely placed lit the area. First glance indicated the place was deserted. The driver led them along a concrete walkway, then down a wooden pier. They came to a stop in front of a forty-foot boat. Jared knew little about the crafts and trusted the man at his word that the vessel could handle the Atlantic.
On board he placed another call. His boss instructed him that they were to head toward the Mediterranean and call back for further instructions in the morning.