Barry nodded as though understanding, though from his look it was hard to tell.
Ahead, half a dozen police cars, three black vehicles − two SUVs and a Ford Sedan −, a fire truck and an ambulance, all sped towards the still-slowing aeroplane. The scene confirmed Sophie had been right to prompt a hasty escape all along.
Sophie started counting down her fingers, closing each phalange into her fist and mouthing the number to Barry.
One.
Two.
Three.
Sophie jumped, relaxing and hunkering down at the same time, trying to make herself small − mainly to protect her head − and falling quickly like a stone. At speed, she landed on the runway hard and rolled several feet, grazing and bruising her arms and legs in the process.
A little behind Sophie, Barry jumped, though opting to try a running landing. As the speed of the Boeing was still vastly superior to anything he could muster from a standstill, his legs crumpled two steps in to his sprint and he landed on his front hard, skidding for fifteen feet.
Picking herself up, Sophie ran towards the prone form of Barry, who, from where she was positioned, looked like he could have been dead.
“Barry!” she was at his side and pushing him onto his back.
“Ahh,” he winced. “That’s gonna hurt in the mornin’.” He tried sitting up and for a second, tried to forget his own injuries to check on Sophie’s. “What the hell... are you a cyborg or something?” Compared to the friction-burns to his chest and stomach, and the cuts and bruising sustained to his upper legs, she was relatively unscathed; superficial bruising and grazing.
“I worked out how best to fall,” she said, simply. “Come on... we need to get out of here before they realise what we’ve done.” She reached down to help her companion to his feet.
“Ahh... ow-wow-wow-wow-wow...!”
“Are you a three-year-old?” Sophie demanded, taking his arm about her shoulder.
“It hurts,” Barry replied pitifully. “I think I may’ve broken it.”
“Broken what?”
“My leg!” he cried.
“Come-on, Barry!”
He tried bearing some weight on his right leg and pain immediately lanced up through his body, feeling like it was about to bore a hole straight out through the top of his head. He grimaced and bit his tongue; a thin tendril of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. “Sophie....” he shook his head miserably, “... it’s no use. I can’t... I can’t walk.” Grimacing and groaning, he added pitifully: “You need to leave me.”
Sophie didn’t want to hear any of it. “Just shut-up Barry. We’re in this together...” Despite her small frame she half-dragged Barry across the runway, then onto a grassy verge, and further, towards an aircraft hangar, Barry constantly grunting and moaning, Sophie wheezing and panting. Each step was an altogether different challenge, and the exertion was taking its toll.
“Seriously... I can’t go on,” Barry gasped. “We’ll both be caught. It’s just a matter of time.”
Around the side of the aircraft hangar, Sophie let Barry slip from her shoulder, and although selfish, felt instantly relieved at shedding the burden. He collapsed in a heap on the floor and looked wretched.
“I’m sorry,” Barry moaned through gritted teeth. “Forgive me...”
Sophie crouched down, leaned over and kissed him on the side of the mouth that was free of blood. “I’ll come back for you,” she said softly.
In the background, sirens began to wail urgently, some getting closer, others hanging back in the distance. A look down the airstrip suggested that the Boeing had come to a halt and had already granted access to those she believed were pursuing her. If that was the case, she assumed it wouldn’t be long before their absence would be discovered.
Barry smiled. “Don’t... forget me,” he said quietly.
Sophie closed her eyes and willed herself invisible, reopening them once the transformation had begun. She watched Barry’s face as she gradually disappeared, his look of sheer pleasure and wonder at what she could amazingly achieve. He looked bewildered, his pain momentarily forgotten. She waved her hand gently − waving goodbye − before fading entirely to nothing.
Precisely then, she remembered that all that remained of her serum − the means to be seen again − was stowed in a bag, left behind on the plane in the overhead closet above her seat.
“Don’t forget me either...” she replied dolefully, before slipping away unnoticed.
Chapter Sixteen
Brayden
Brayden Scott was perched on the edge of a desk in the centre of the air traffic control room. The FBI special agent, Christina Mullins, was close by, as were two other agents dressed in black body armour and carrying rifles. Four air traffic controllers sat in a line along one side of the building overlooking the runways, large screens and an array of electronic aviation hardware was sprawled out along the entire stretch in front of them. Another controller was standing up, his workstation now vacant. He was facing Brayden with his hands on his hips. He wore a concerned expression, like he had just learnt that his house had burnt down.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” Brayden tried to reassure. “The plane, its crew and its passengers are not in any danger.” The CIA man had burst into the Traffic Control Tower moments earlier slightly out of breath from climbing two flights of stairs. The tower was a small glass-walled cabin topping a drab grey concrete structure that someone had tried to make attractive by placing a checked-pattern; rows of light-grey and Columbia-blue tiles stretched up each side of the rectangular-shaped construct.
“You say that with confidence, but really... who are you?” The senior air traffic controller − Pat, informed the metal pin on his light-blue shirt − a man in his forties and carrying far too much body weight, was annoyed that government agents had forced their way in and were now trying to dictate and bypass protocols and security procedures. When he spoke, excess fat wobbled about his face, but mostly in his cheeks and around his chin.
“I am working on the direct orders of the President. By all means, feel free to call him if you need any clarification...”
Pat sighed. He was in charge here. Not the FBI or NSA or Homeland Security; and definitely not the frigging CIA.
“Look...” Mullins began to speak soothingly, trying to appease the situation. “We’re not taking over your airport. We just want to apprehend two passengers who are due to arrive on the United Airlines flight from Miami. We’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
“Okay, okay,” Pat surrendered. “What do you want me to do?”
Brayden took over speaking duties. “Be cool and tell the pilot that there are two passengers on board who are wanted fugitives, and that law enforcement wants to board the plane on arrival to make an arrest. It’s imperative that the passengers are not alarmed, and our targets are not spooked.”
“Who are they?” Having made a decision he hoped he didn’t regret, Pat was mentally preparing what he was going to say to the pilot of the aircraft. He thought it might be useful to know who he was dealing with.
“On the flight’s manifest, they are listed as a married couple, Sophie and Barry Mason. Needless to say, those are aliases. That’s all you need to know.” Brayden was curt.
“Fine.” Pat was equally blunt.
Sensing the hostility, Mullins stepped in. “Tell us... when is the flight due to land?”
Pat consulted a screen that Brayden guessed was radar, and then another screen with a whole list of jargon. After, he quickly checked the watch strapped to his left wrist. “Approximately eight minutes time,” he replied hesitantly.
“Good. That’s good,” asserted Brayden. “After you’ve informed the pilot, tell them to circle the airport for a bit... my teams need to be in place and ready.” Adding, quietly to himself:
“We don’t want any more surprises.”
Eight minutes later, standing alongside the black Ford Sedan, Brayden watched the Boeing 737 come into view through a pair of binoculars he had found in the glove compartment, and followed it as it gracefully glided down from the sky towards the runway. Inside the Sedan, Mullins sat waiting for Brayden to climb in and give the word to set them forward.
The United Airlines flight from Miami touched down smoothly and began travelling the runway, approximately 3,000 metres in length, and its speed lessening with the pilot’s application of the brakes. Pat had advised Brayden that the pilot of the Boeing had been instructed to bring the plane to a halt some distance from the terminal building, within an area that allowed a good deal of space to surround.
With the aircraft fast-approaching, Brayden turned to an airport police officer and gave him the order to proceed. “Exactly as I said,” he instructed. “O-kay! Let’s go... let’s go... let’s go!” Brayden climbed into the passenger seat and Mullins set the Sedan in motion. Behind them, two black SUVs transporting a team of field agents, followed by half a dozen black and white police cars, a fire truck and an ambulance, all began moving in tandem. The convoy of vehicles fanned out to speed towards the approaching plane alongside each other in a parallel line. Without warning, sirens began to howl from the emergency vehicles accompanied by flashing blue or red roof beacons, or coruscating blue-and-red light-bars.
Brayden turned angrily about. He scooped up a hand-held radio and barked: “Kill the sirens, damn-it!”
“There goes the element of surprise,” assured Mullins, staring ahead.
Brayden shook his head in agitation. “That’s California...” he muttered to himself. Mullins said nothing, smirking a little to herself.
A set of air-stairs were being manoeuvred from a hangar on the left side of the airfield as the Boeing gradually came to a halt; the fire truck driver positioning them at the rear passenger door.
Brayden and the FBI’s cars drew level and pulled up just a short walk from the plane’s nose; the police cars sped past and took up positions around the aircraft, hemming it in. The fire truck and ambulance stopped a little out of the way, there on standby just as a precaution.
Looking up, Brayden could see the pilot (or co-pilot) peering out through the cockpit window. Climbing out of the Sedan, he gave the aviator a short wave.
With the air-stairs in place, Brayden and Mullins advanced up the flight of steps and stopped at the Boeing’s passenger door. It felt absurd, but Brayden rapped his knuckles against the aluminium-alloy door as though canvassing door-to-door in a residential suburb. Mullins matched him for pace and was at his side.
For a long moment, Brayden didn’t think the door was ever going to be opened, feeling how a Jehovah’s Witness or a travelling salesman might often feel; then the sounds of metal grating against metal as levers and handles were pulled down, followed marginally by the groan of the door’s internal hydraulics as they assisted the stewardess on the reverse side. Painfully slow, the door retracted to reveal a blotchy-red-faced young woman with tears of mascara streaking down her cheeks.
“You’re too late; they’re gone!” she said. It was hard to tell whether the air hostess was in shock or just plain upset.
Stepping back out of the Boeing aircraft, Brayden felt acid bubble at the back of his throat and the sour taste of bile fill his mouth. “Lock down the airport!” he shouted down to a couple of uniformed policemen standing just to the left of the air-stairs. “They can’t be far. Have a cruiser circle the perimeter.” He started descending the staircase, his feet clanging noisily against the metal steps.
Mullins appeared behind Brayden and quickly followed him down. “SWAT is on stand-by,” she announced. “I’ll make the call.” Once at the bottom of the temporary stairs, she jogged across to the black car. Without climbing in, she reached down and picked up the radio.
“Sir?” An FBI field agent wearing a navy blue windbreaker, FBI printed in large yellow letters across the back and smaller ones on the front and sleeves, stepped towards Brayden. He was African-American and younger than Brayden. His hair had been buzz-cut into short fuzz. “We’ve just got word from maintenance that someone has been seen trespassing at one of the hangars on the south-side of the airport.”
“Sophie?”
“Nah... The other one. Apparently he’s still there.”
Brayden wrinkled his nose, not hiding his disappointment. “Okay... let’s go get ’im...” he returned to the Sedan and climbed into the passenger seat. Mullins, still holding the radio, slipped in behind the steering wheel and readied to go.
“SWAT is en route. I’ve also alerted the airport’s Chief of Police that fugitives are at large within the compound... in view of what we are dealing with, I’ve asked him to report anything untoward, no matter what.” Mullins emphasised the no matter what.
“Good,” mumbled Brayden, distracted. This is how it always goes, he thought. Nothing ever went his way.
The cavalcade of FBI and police vehicles screamed away from the stationary aeroplane; the two SUVs leading the way, followed by Mullin’s Sedan and then two of the black and white police cruisers.
Less than twenty seconds later, they pulled up alongside the first of three immense structures. Nothing beat the sheer scale of an aircraft hangar, mused Brayden. A large gaping doorway was open to reveal an aircraft in a state of reassembly; wings, engines, fuselage and sundry parts sprawled across the concrete floor.
“Yo yo yo... this way!” The field agent that had alerted Brayden to Sophie’s companion started to run in the direction of one of the other hangars. Brayden and Mullins quickly exited the vehicle, absent-mindedly drawing their weapons as they followed the field agent around the side of the second hangar.
A moment later: “Over here!”
Brayden and Mullins charged towards the sound of the voice, following it around to the side of the hangar. They came to a stop next to him. He was stooping, surveying the scene.
“He was here,” the agent said, crouching down to squat over a patch of dark moisture alongside the wall of the large building. “Blood.” He reached down and dabbed a finger against the crimson patch and held it up for inspection. “Fresh too.”
Brayden re-holstered his gun, as did Mullins. He looked about urgently, eyes searching, a pained look on his face. Behind him was the airfield, the Boeing just visible to his right. Ahead were some smaller buildings and beyond them was a perimeter fence that enclosed the airport.
“We must’ve just missed him,” proclaimed Brayden. “He’s losing blood and in bad shape from the looks of things. He can’t be far...”
The field agent stood up. “I found some more blood over there... a trail of sorts heading away towards the back of the hangar.”
“Okay Agent... Go get some of your guys to follow the trail; search all the buildings. Make sure you find him. He’s gotta be here somewhere...”
“Yes sir...”
Brayden turned to his FBI partner. “Mullins... let’s focus on the girl. She’s who we really want.”
“Okay. So far, there’s been no sight of her around the perimeter,” Mullins calmly stated.
“And there’s not likely to be either,” muttered Brayden. “Tell me, do you do much field work?”
“More than most I guess, why?”
“Then I suspect you’ll have what I need in your car’s trunk.”
“I have plenty of weapons, if that’s what you mean,” Mullins said acutely. “A Kevlar jacket too...”
“What about night-vision optics?”
“Brayden... it’s day time,” intoning it obviously. The two plainclothes agents were casually walking back to the car.
“I’m thinking the thermal setting. There’s no way we’ll be seeing Sophie Jennings now... not with the naked eye.”
/>
“Seriously, her being invisible... that wasn’t a joke?” quizzed Mullins, not totally convinced by all that had been relayed to her in the mission brief. She knew absolutely nothing about Sophie’s abilities, and even less regarding Project GYGES.
Brayden “Tsked” to himself. “I forget; I’ve grown so accustomed to my adversary being like a ghost that I’ve taken it for granted.” He started to laugh at an unspoken joke, slowly shaking his head. “And to think, I’ve never actually seen her. I’m just following the Deputy Director’s orders. For all I know, we’re just chasing our shadows!”
“Who are we to question the chain of command?” she asked sarcastically. Stepping into the Sedan, further conversation was halted by the radio crackling into life.
“Agent Mullins? This is Stapleton... Chief of Fresno Airport Police.” The wheezy, nasally voice of the senior police officer filled the car.
“Yes, Chief.”
“You asked to be advised of anything strange or abnormal,” he began, “I thought you’d like to know, a silent alarm has just been triggered at one of the emergency exits near to boarding gate six in the terminal building. It’s the oddest thing; CCTV is picking up nothing... but doors…” Stapleton started to laugh over the radio, “…they don’t open all by themselves.”
“Thanks Chief... we’ll check it out.”
“What in hell is going on?”
Mullins ignored the question. She looked uncertainly towards Brayden as the Sedan sped forward, steering the vehicle towards the terminal building. It wasn’t too far from where the Boeing was still parked, and the first of the airliner’s passengers started to disembark.
Brayden took the radio from Mullins and disconnected the transmission. “It’s nothing personal…” he said, unheard by the Chief of Fresno’s Airport Police. “It’s just one of those ‘needs to know’ situations.”
The Whisper of Persia (The Girl in the Mirror Book 3) Page 11