Halon-Seven

by Xander Weaver

  No. There was no question. Mister Cooper was not who he claimed. An investigative journalist from Chicago wouldn’t react to a situation like this. But a professional operator would. That would make him military? Maybe NSA? Hell, he could be a private contractor. If that was the case, Franklin would grind him under his boot like a bug. He didn’t like the idea of anyone running around his city and shooting it up.

  Franklin set that line of thought aside. What did he know? Cooper had the presence of mind to lose his shoes before pursuing the kidnapers down the stairwell. They’d found his shoes outside the apartment on the tenth floor. That meant he was sharp. He could chase down the kidnappers without giving up the element of surprise. But if Cooper’s story was to be believed, the two fleeing men had a head start, and he’d had little hope of catching up. To that end, Cooper had given up his chase when he reached the fourth floor. He’d fired two shots, killing both men as they ran the forty yard stretch between the apartment building and the getaway van parked in the lot.

  Really?

  It was hard to believe. Two men running away, and at a distance—with a handgun! That only worked in the movies. Normal people simply didn’t make a shot like that. Franklin thought he might be able to, if he dumped the entire contents of his magazine down on the men. But the evidence confirmed that Cooper’s gun was missing a total of six rounds. Six rounds? Three of those slugs were lodged in the asphalt of the parking lot, further confirming Cyrus’s claim that he fired on the van’s driver to scare him off. That meant the two previous shots were kill shots, and they likely indicated the young man could’ve taken out the driver of the van had he wanted. The SWAT team boys could shoot like that. But they had rifles. And scopes! And spotters to help range targets! He would have to talk with some of them when he got back to the precinct. He wanted to know what kind of skill was required to make a shot like that. And Cooper had taken the shot at one of the men while he ran with the girl slung over his shoulder.

  Was Cooper that good, or that reckless?

  Franklin ground his teeth once more and thought about the pair of shoes lying at the top of the stairs. It galled him to admit it, but he was going with skill rather than luck. The man was intelligent and skilled.

  The question remained, was this a homicide or an attempted kidnapping? And as much as he wanted to know who the hell Cooper was, the more pertinent question was, what was Miss Knoland’s role in this? The evidence indicated that she’d been the intended kidnapping victim. But why?

  Still, he could understand her need for answers. The entire series of events was a blank spot in her memory. He went on to explain to her, in general terms, how they had concluded that the four armed men had lain in wait for her to return to the apartment. Their apparent objective had been to abduct her. He provided the broad strokes of what Cyrus had gone through in being attacked on her balcony, killing the two men, and then pursuing her kidnappers. He explained that Cyrus had shot the two men dead not far from where she now sat.

  With each addition to the story, Miss Knoland’s face grew more ashen. As much as Franklin hated to admit it, the idea that someone would wanted to abduct her seemed genuinely shocking. If there were answers to be found, they would come from digging into her past, her financial records, and her known associates.

  —————

  Franklin told Reese he had all he needed from her for the moment. He warned that he would be in touch. More questions were sure to follow. She nodded and thanked him. She thanked the EMT and slid cautiously off the gurney. Then she walked over to Cyrus on rubbery legs. The officers on either side of Cyrus watched her with apprehension but said nothing. A glance was exchanged between the two men before they widened their cordon and allowed her a seat on the bench.

  “It’s looking like dinner and a drink is turning into breakfast,” she said, giving Cyrus a weary smile. She put her hand on his knee. “Are you okay?”

  He returned her smile. “I say we skip breakfast and just go for a drink.”

  Something had changed between them. The awkward ‘just having met’ or ‘getting to know you’ stage was subverted by the shared experience. She still wasn’t sure what had happened, but she did know one thing. If it weren’t for Cyrus, she would be in a world of trouble right now.

  —————

  Cyrus felt Reese lean against him. Even sitting on the bench with his hands cuffed behind his back, her touch sent a warm rush through his body. It was just what he needed. He was tired. He was banged up. And most of all, he was about to get crabby about the handcuffs. He wasn’t sure what Detective Franklin’s issue was, but the man seemed to be in a foul mood.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” Reese was whispering from where she leaned closely beside him. She didn’t look at him. Her tone was serious.

  He was afraid it was going to be the question that he’d been asked before. She would want to know how he felt about killing those men. It was a horrible question. The question ate at him. Not because he felt guilt over what he’d done. Just the opposite. If he was justified in his actions, there was no guilt. He had a clear conscience. No remorse. That was the part that actually bothered him. Somehow it seemed wrong to be ambivalent. Plus, dammit, this was supposed to be behind him. That’s what hurt. How could he explain these things to her when he couldn’t understand them himself?

  He needn’t have bothered. “You lost your shoes again?” she asked finally. “Is this going to be an ongoing issue with you?”

  He couldn’t help it. He laughed. He laughed out loud. It was unusual for him, and it felt good. Wiggling his toes down in the cold sand, he shook his head. There was something special about this woman.

  Cyrus saw a black town car slalom slowly through the parking lot and approach the perimeter defined by police cars. It was a nondescript sedan that had no special markings or plates, but something about it called out to him. When the driver and the passenger stepped from the vehicle at the same time, he knew what it was that had drawn his attention. These people tried so hard to be nondescript that they were actually rather overt. They’d never learn. Even the way they dressed screamed federal. Both men wore crisp dark suits. The passenger scanned the gathered personnel and quickly identified Franklin without hesitation. That stood to reason. They were briefed on things like this before reaching a crime scene. The chip on Franklin’s shoulder was about to grow by two sizes.

  The two suited, government men approached Franklin. While Cyrus couldn’t hear what was said, he knew what was being expressed. He could tell by the indignation on Franklin’s face. The three men conversed for several minutes, Franklin doing all the listening. Every word his spoke seemed to come through clamped teeth. Finally, one of the suited men nodded to Franklin. The conversation was over. The two suits turned and headed back to their car.

  When Franklin stepped in front of Cyrus, it was clear he was trying to be intimidating. Cyrus wasn’t startled. He didn’t care. He knew Franklin had his marching orders. This was confirmed when Franklin dismissed the two officers standing sentry. The shifting personnel stirred Reese. She had fallen asleep against Cyrus’s shoulder.

  “I don’t know who you are,” Franklin growled as he released Cyrus from the handcuffs. “And I don’t know who you know—but this isn’t over. This is my case. And if I find evidence that this didn’t go exactly the way you claim, I’ll have you back here so fast it’ll make your head spin!”

  “Fair enough, Detective.” Cyrus said quietly. He gave the man a tip of his imaginary hat before he and Reese headed back up to her apartment. It was a crime scene now. She would gather a few things and clear out until the police were done and the landlord had a chance to patch the place back together.

  —————

  It had been a hell of a long night, and Reese couldn’t remember an important part of it. That didn’t sit well with her. Nor did the fact that someone had tried to kidnap her. She could only assume that someone was targeting the project, through her. But it was hard to b
elieve that the secret had gotten out. And, if the detective was right, gang members had tried to kidnap her. That didn’t track at all.

  Cyrus hit the call button on the elevator. “You have a car, right?” he asked.

  “Of course, why?”

  “Because we can’t use your platform to go back to the office now. We’ll have to do it the old fashioned way.” He grinned. “You still remember how to drive there, don’t you?”

  She laughed. Was it really that easy for him to make jokes after all that had happened? Had he really just fought for his life against four armed men and survived? Is this what Walter was referring to when he’d talked about Cyrus Cooper’s unique skills?

  “We need to call your team in for a conference as soon as possible,” Cyrus explained as they stepped into the elevator. “Someone was targeting you. They could be targeting the rest of the Meridian team as well.”

  “You just read my mind.” She was already tapping on her cell phone. It took only a moment to send a message to the entire team. It was an emergency code, another one of Walter Meade’s protocols. This one would immediately direct everyone to a fallback location for an emergency meeting.

  Suddenly Walter’s paranoid plans weren’t so paranoid after all.

  Chapter 12

  Payton Street, Santa Barbara, California

  Wednesday, 8:12 am (9:12 am Colorado Time)

  Reese had sent a coded message to every member of the project. According to the protocol, they were to drop everything and meet at a pre-determined location, some distance down the coast. Per the procedure, each member of the team had texted back an acknowledgment. But there was one exception. Alfie Ahmed, a lab technician, hadn’t responded and he couldn’t be reached on his mobile. After Reese was attacked at her apartment, Cyrus admitted concern. They needed to get the entire team into protective custody as quickly as possible. He suggested they visit Ahmed’s home to investigate.

  Cyrus turned Reese’s black VW Jetta onto Payton Street, located on the outskirts of Santa Barbara. The car rolled slowly past the evenly spaced, single-family homes. Reese pointed out Ahmed’s residence when she located the correct house number. She explained that she’d never been there, but was pretty sure Ahmed lived alone. A small blue Toyota pickup was parked in the driveway. Rather than pull in behind it, Cyrus continued to drive past. He didn’t say anything, but she could tell his eyes were probing the neighborhood for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing must’ve stood out, because he seemed satisfied.

  Cyrus turned the corner and circled the block. When they made it back to Ahmed’s street, he pulled the car to the curb a half dozen houses before reaching Ahmed’s driveway. He turned the engine off and dropped the keys into his jacket pocket.

  Before their trip to check on Ahmed, they’d driven back to the office and used the platform to return to his house in Colorado. Cyrus had reloaded his gun and grabbed a couple of additional magazines. He had explained that meeting with Walter’s team was turning out to be much more complicated than anticipated. It was pure chance that he was even armed the night before. He wouldn’t rely on luck again. He’d also taken a lightweight jacket, explaining that, while it would be uncomfortably warm in the California sun come mid-day, the jacket would hide his gun. It wasn’t lost on her that such thinking seemed second nature.

  She walked silently up the street at his side. They had no idea what they might be walking into, but it didn’t seem to slow him down.

  As they approached Ahmed’s home, Cyrus’s eyes scanned the surrounding area for signs of observation or ambush. They passed a few cars parked along the street. Each of the cars had dew on its roof and windows, a clear sign that they’d been stationary throughout the night. The morning sun was not yet in a position to burn away the moisture. She could tell Cyrus was eyeing the passenger compartments of each car as they went, but if she weren’t watching his mannerisms closely, she would’ve missed his attention. It was striking how he could appear so at ease while remaining so on edge.

  He stopped. She realized he was looking at three cigarette butts lying spent and extinguished in the street. He only gave them a moment’s consideration before moving on. She wanted to ask what he was thinking, but they were approaching Ahmed’s yard and the opportunity was lost.

  Without pause, Cyrus stepped off the sidewalk and into Ahmed’s front lawn. As he went, he snatched up the morning newspaper from where it lay, having been delivered before dawn. He pulled the paper from its plastic bag, wadded the bag up, and stuffed it in his back pocket. Without missing a stride, they mounted the short set of stairs leading to the front door.

  Very briefly, Cyrus showed Reese where to stand, just off to the side of the door’s frame. Casual and unassuming, but out of the line of fire in the event someone started shooting from the other side of the door. He quickly pulled his gun and slid it under the folded morning paper.

  It was staggering how matter-of-factly he’d facilitated all of this. It hadn’t required any planning on his part. He just knew what to do.

  —————

  Cyrus pressed the doorbell button and double checked Reese’s position. She was at the corner of the door. It was the best possible position, should someone opened fire from the other side. It seemed unlikely, but he’d seen it happen. They heard the bell ring on the opposite side of the door, but they couldn’t hear anything more. Just when he was about to ring the bell for a second time, approaching footsteps became audible.

  The door opened, and a small, dark skinned man stood before them. He was dressed in pajama pants, a wrinkled white t-shirt, and a pair of crooked glasses. “Alfie!” Reese exclaimed, putting Cyrus at easy. “Are you alright?”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Cyrus double-checked the street. They were still clear.

  “Of course, I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be?” Alfie Ahmed spoke with a mild British accent. He was a slight man, no more than 5’ 9” at most, and maybe 130 pounds, if Cyrus was generous. The man had tangled, dark, curly hair and olive skin.

  “You haven’t answered your mobile,” Reese explained. “I sent an emergency message this morning. You’re the only one who didn’t respond.”

  Ahmed looked at Cyrus as if noticing him for the first time. He patted the pockets of his robe as he searched for his phone. “Let me find it. Please, come in.”

  Cyrus cast a weary eye into the dimly lit interior of the single story house. All the shades must’ve been drawn. It was dark, given the time of day. He stepped through the door first with his gun leveled beneath the fold of the newspaper. Reese cast him an apprising glance, but said nothing. She followed him through the door.

  Cyrus had been correct. Throughout the house, blinds were drawn. The house consisted of an open floor plan, so the entryway, kitchen, living room, and small dining room were all visible from where he stood. He could hear Ahmed muttering to himself as he moved from room to room in the back of the house, presumably looking for his phone.

  Other than the shades being drawn, there was nothing unusual or off-putting. The furnishings were sparse. The living room had only a large ratty couch and a threadbare La-Z-Boy recliner. Both were parked before a massive flat-screen television. The television had no receiver or DVD player. Only an Xbox One game console. Judging by the array of snack food wrappers spread between the couch and the TV, Ahmed had recently been on a gaming binge. It would explain the drawn shades and his somewhat nonplused manner. He had likely been up all night.

  Ahmed returned from the back bedroom holding up his smartphone. “Battery’s dead. I’m sorry to put you through the trouble of coming out here.” He thought for a moment, as if hearing what Reese said for the first time. “You said there is an emergency?”

  “Yes! Please get dressed,” she said with some impatience. “Something’s happened. I’ll fill you in when we meet with the rest of the group.”

  “I don’t understand.” He looked at Cyrus suspiciously. “Who is this?”

  “Later! Get dressed! We have to
go. The others will be waiting, and we don’t have time to waste.”

  “Please, calm down. I’ll just change my clothes. Why are you acting like this? We can be back in the office in seconds!”

  Reese took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. Cyrus could tell that the thought of her team being in danger had started to erode her patience. “I’m sorry, Alfie. You didn’t get my text. I sent a code 1412. We won’t be using the platforms. We’re meeting at a fallback location, and we must get there quickly.”

  Judging by the mention of the code 1412 and the wrinkles it produced on Ahmed’s forehead, the man finally had a glimpse of the situation’s gravity.

  “What’s happened? And who is this man?”

  Reese only responded by glaring at the young man. The wrinkles returned to his forehead. Finally, he turned and hurried down the hall. Clearly Reese was accustomed to dealing with such idiosyncrasies.

  “He’s a good lab tech,” she said to Cyrus, as if reading his mind. “He’s just young. And now I think he’s more than a little frightened.”

  “What exactly does a code 1412 entail?” He tossed the newspaper on the kitchen counter and holstered his gun.

  “Professor Meade had an entire binder full of these codes. He required the team to memorize them. Some of the information was rather verbose. But the gist of 1412 was to drop what you’re doing and get your ass to a specific, secure location. In this case, it’s a building to the south, along the coast. We can’t tell anyone where we’re going, and we don’t bring anyone or anything with us. We just drop everything and go. Until now, I had no idea why he’d devised such severe contingencies.”

  Cyrus understood why. He also knew that the fallback location would be someplace safe that had no ties to the project or any of its members. It would be a safe house that Meade set up long ago. Such procedures were not uncommon in espionage circles. And from what Cyrus was learning about this project, Meade had more than a little cause to be paranoid.