The Jason Betrayal

by Jack Bowie

  Braxton raised himself to his knees. Singer moved, and he realized this wasn’t over. His nemesis was undoubtedly armed. He had to get a weapon.

  Sydney had said, “Get the knife”. It must be on the bench. He crawled back to the table, pulled himself up and rummaged over the top. There was no knife. But there was a piece of pipe.

  * * *

  Singer found himself lying on the floor.

  What the hell happened?

  His head throbbed. Had he hit it on the floor? He sat up, but his eyes wouldn’t focus. All he saw were shadows. He put his hand to his scalp. It was wet and sticky.

  Singer’s vision slowly cleared and he saw that the shadow was Braxton. He was now standing at the parts bench searching for something.

  How did the consultant get free?

  He couldn’t fail now. Nothing else mattered. He had to regain control.

  The damn consultant was not going to ruin his plans. Again.

  Singer took a deep breath and held it, willing his mind to relax. When he exhaled, his calm had returned. He was ready.

  He saw Braxton grab a piece of pipe and come toward him, the pipe raised for a strike.

  Singer spun to his left. His right leg swept into Braxton’s knees while his right arm shot up to block the impending blow. He braced himself for the impact.

  Braxton fell hard to his knees, but not before his strike made contact. A spear of pain shot from Singer’s hand up to his shoulder, and he heard a loud crack. His broken wrist had taken the brunt of the attack and it had again yielded.

  Excruciating pain radiated up his arm, but he couldn’t rest. Braxton would soon resume the attack, with dire consequences.

  Singer staggered to his feet, his right arm dangling lifeless at his side, walked to Braxton’s body, now prone on the concrete floor, and delivered a savage kick to the consultant’s rib cage.

  * * *

  “Umph.” Braxton rolled across the floor; landing doubled over against the metal table. His weapon now lay next to Singer’s feet.

  “Well, you have got some guts. Now we can have some fun.” Singer slid the pipe away with his foot, then held out his left hand and waved his fingers inward. “Come and get me.”

  Braxton pulled himself up. This insanity was going to end here. He lunged at Singer like a linebacker.

  Singer stepped back, casually swiped Braxton’s arms aside and planted the toe of his boot into his attacker’s chest. There was a loud crack and Braxton fell, a stabbing pain circling his upper body.

  He wanted to just lie there. Let the pain go away. Maybe the nightmare would be over. It would be so easy.

  But then he thought of Donnelly and Walker. What about them? And what about his promise to Teuber?

  Braxton struggled to his hands and knees. He looked up at Walker. The knife hadn’t been on the table. She had stared at the floor. It wasn’t there either. Where else could it be?

  Then he looked down. Her boots. They were the same boots she had been wearing in Edinburgh.

  Walker had saved his life with the knife in her boot. Now it was his turn.

  He began crawling towards Walker. She was only a few feet away.

  Singer watched his progress with a leer. “Oh. Groveling to your girlfriend? Think she’s going to help you?”

  Singer raised his foot and slammed it onto Braxton’s back. He collapsed flat on the floor, gasping for breath.

  “Oh, get up. That wasn’t so bad. We’ve got so much more to do.”

  Braxton finally caught his breath. Just a few feet ahead he saw the legs of Walker’s chair. And the boots. He began inching forward.

  Reaching out, he grabbed the leg of the chair and pulled himself up. He angled his body to hide his search from Singer, and slipped his hand into the boot, working it around the rim. But nothing was there.

  Where is the knife?

  “Well, isn’t that sweet?” Singer commented. “But I’m tired of this game. It’s time to put you back to sleep.”

  Braxton knew he didn’t have much longer. He looked up at Walker. She shook her head. To the right.

  Dammit!

  Walker was right-handed. The knife would be on the outside of her right boot and he was wasting time on the left.

  Singer raised his leg to deliver a final blow. Braxton knew his rib cage couldn’t take another impact. He reached for the other boot and stuck his hand inside. It hit something hard.

  As Singer brought his foot down, Braxton grabbed the knife’s handle, pulled it out of the boot and slashed upward with everything he had.

  The psychopath’s foot connected and knocked him backward into Walker’s legs, but it lacked the power of the others. He looked up and saw Singer fall to the floor.

  * * *

  Singer pulled his head up from the cold concrete floor.

  Where the hell did the consultant get a knife?

  He gazed down to his right leg and saw a stream of bright red blood pulsing through the slash in his pants.

  Femoral artery. Not much time left.

  He was already too weak to defend himself. He had two choices: take the time to use his belt to make a tourniquet and stem the flow, an effort that might save his life, but would certainly result in his capture, or do what was needed to make the rest of Slattery’s life as miserable as he could.

  He was not going to die, writhing, in some CIA prison hospital bed.

  “This is a truth: when you sacrifice your life, you must make fullest use of your weapons. It is false not to do so, and to die with a weapon yet undrawn.”

  He could still press a button with his left hand.

  “In the void is virtue, and no evil. Wisdom has existence, principle has existence, the Way has existence, spirit is nothingness.”

  So ends A Book of Five Rings.

  * * *

  Braxton knew he had hit something. He had felt the resistance of the blade. Singer’s leg had collapsed and the psychopath had fallen to the floor just feet away.

  He looked across to the prone body and saw a pool of dark crimson spreading under Singer’s leg. Then he raised his head and was caught in Singer’s gaze. The eyes froze him in place.

  What should I do?

  His mind went to Walker. She was still tied to the chair and needed medical assistance. He had to help her.

  But what about Singer? Can I take the chance to leave him?

  Then Braxton saw Singer’s left hand move to his side.

  There was no time to see if his enemy had a gun. He’d be dead by the time he saw it.

  Braxton pushed himself up and threw himself on Singer. He shoved the knife in the man’s chest and levered it down.

  Singer’s body jerked from the impact, expelled a burst of air, and fell motionless.

  Braxton crawled off the body and collapsed on the cold floor. He was shaking from the rush of adrenaline and weakness of exhaustion.

  Singer lay lifeless. The stiletto, buried to its hilt, stuck up from his chest like a miniature tombstone. A cell phone lay in Singer’s hand. Not a gun. A single digit shown on the display. Who was he trying to call?

  Braxton took a deep breath and raised onto his knees. He looked up and thought he saw a face in the second-floor window. But then it disappeared.

  He had no desire to extract the stiletto, so he crawled over to the body and frisked Singer to look for something sharp. He found the Sig behind Singer’s back and slid it across the floor. Then he found his knife.

  After a brief attack of vertigo, he got to his feet and stumbled over to Walker. Her head had fallen over with her chin resting on her chest.

  “Sydney? Can you hear me?” He gently raised her head with his hands. He could barely stand to look at the bruises on her face. “Are you okay?”

  Walker’s eyes fluttered open. After a few seconds, they focused on his face. “Did you get him?” she whispered.

  Braxton finally felt like he could breathe. He rested her head against his chest.

  “Yes, Syd. We got him. It’s
time to go home.”

  Walker pulled her head back and forced a weak smile. “Took you long enough. Now will you cut me out of this chair?”

  Chapter 40

  Simmering, Vienna, Austria

  Thursday, 12:17 a.m.

  Shahid stepped away from the window and walked back to her console.

  It serves the bastard right. He was going to kill me with the rest of them.

  But had he changed his mind? Is that why he had told her to go home?

  She’d never know the answer to that question.

  Shahid had known something was wrong when Singer had told her she could have the whole auction take. He was not a sharing person. Something else had been going on.

  Did he really think I wouldn’t check out his “vegetable oil”?

  She wasn’t an expert in explosives—she’d have to add that to her to-do list—so she had simply turned off the phone and taken out the SIM card and battery.

  The highest bid was still twenty-five million Euros. The scientist would no longer be included, of course, but who would the disappointed buyer come after? Singer?

  And that amount would give her a very comfortable new start.

  She sent a short email congratulating the winner and waited for the deposit to clear her Bitcoin account. Then she sent the package. This particular recipient would make good use of the report.

  It was time to shut the operation down. All her files had already been saved on her encrypted cloud server. A final look around satisfied her that nothing identifiable had been left. The room was clean.

  A few keystrokes initiated her shutdown sequence.

  The hacker known as Scheherazade moved to the fire escape and disappeared into the night.

  * * *

  Braxton sat in the ambulance grimacing as an Austrian paramedic wrapped his bruised chest in a roll of tape. His wrists were already heavily bandaged. Across from him, Slattery and his friend, Bernie Ostermann, sat with dour looks on their faces. Apparently, he hadn’t been hurt as much as they would have liked.

  The past hour had been raucous, to say the least. After he had cut Walker free of the chair, he had helped her outside, trying not to think about the state of her left hand.

  He had settled her on the steps and been about to return to release Donnelly, when Slattery, Fowler and a squad of Austrian SWAT police, dressed in full body armor and carrying serious-looking assault rifles, had arrived in a beat-up contractor’s van. Braxton hadn’t even asked about it. He had waved to Fowler, trying to convey a sense of safety. Slattery and Fowler had rushed up the steps, the assault team behind them. His friends had stopped, but the squad had stormed inside the building.

  He had been explaining what had happened when the team had rushed back out with Donnelly, grabbing everyone in sight and hustling them to the other side of the street. Braxton had eventually learned that explosives had been discovered and the bomb squad notified.

  Ambulances had been called and Slattery had introduced Ostermann as the head of the assault team. Then they waited.

  When the ambulances had arrived, paramedic crews had worked on Donnelly and Walker, preparing them for transit. Braxton had refused any treatment until he knew Walker was safe. Both patients had been described as severely dehydrated, with significant bruising and multiple broken bones. They had been taken to Vienna General Hospital, according to Ostermann the premier hospital in the city, incorporating both a university medical center and medical school.

  Fowler had demanded that he accompany Walker.

  After the bomb squad had arrived, it was only a few minutes before they had a report. Five drums of ANFO—ammonium nitrate and fuel oil, the explosive of choice for terrorists around the world—had been found rigged to a cell phone-activated detonator. For some reason, the battery of the cell phone had been removed, rendering the device inoperable.

  Slattery had asked Braxton if he knew anything about the device. He had responded in the negative but now understood why a phone, not a gun, had been in Singer’s hand at the end. But why would he have removed the battery?

  The paramedic finally exhausted the roll of tape and pressed in the last clip. Braxton grunted in pain.

  He finally got around to asking the question that had been on his mind since they had arrived. “Okay, Roger. How did you find us?”

  “We tried visual tracking but Singer had set off a cloud of smoke bombs.” Braxton just shook his head. He didn’t remember anything after yanking the hood off Scheherazade. “I had asked Sam to put a tracker on you. It was a special one with a timer delay. Singer wouldn’t have found it with a normal RF sensor. It didn’t turn on until midnight. We came as soon as it pinged.”

  Braxton had been right. Slattery had had a plan. Good thing he hadn’t set the delay for any later. They would now likely all be dead.

  “I saw someone in the window on the second floor. I think it was Scheherazade.”

  “It looks like that was their office,” Osterman replied. “There were racks of computer equipment, monitors and desks. Unfortunately, whoever had been there wiped everything out. The tech guys say the mains had been short-circuited into the devices. All the chips are fried. They’ll take everything back to the laboratory, but it’s unlikely we’ll find anything.”

  “Did the report get released?” Braxton asked.

  Ostermann gave Slattery a questioning look and the CIA agent ignored him. “No way to know,” Slattery answered.

  “You do realize how insanely stupid your actions were?” Slattery continued, staring at Braxton. “I should lock you up for impeding a federal investigation.”

  Braxton took a breath and felt the pain encircle his chest. Why did he do all this?

  “I understand you’re angry. But I did what I needed to do to save Sydney. It was the only way. And I’d do it again. You should do what you need to do.”

  Slattery closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his fingers. He sat that way for a few seconds then pounded on the side of the ambulance. “Let’s go.”

  The ambulance drove off into the night.

  Epilogue

  Tysons Tower, Tysons Corner, VA

  Two months later, 1:30 p.m.

  Braxton and Walker had scored a rare outside table at Earl’s Kitchen on the Tower’s Plaza Level. It was a breathtaking fall day in Northern Virginia: blazing sun, clear azure sky, and a refreshing cool breeze. No one wanted to spend any more time indoors than necessary. They had finished their lunches and were looking for any excuse to avoid going back upstairs.

  “So how’s that new office, partner?”

  Lots had changed over the past two months. After returning from Europe, Braxton had had his lawyer restructure Cerberus from a sole proprietorship to a partnership. Walker was now his junior partner.

  Then Chu had heard that CPA Lester Scanlon, his long-time neighbor on the other side of the conference room, was retiring to Arizona. She had grabbed the space for Walker, essentially doubling Cerberus’ footprint.

  “Very nice, partner. And thanks for picking up the furniture. Scanlon had good taste.”

  “Well, you certainly deserve it. Now all we have to do is get enough business to support us in the manner to which we wish to become accustomed.”

  Walker started scratching at her left hand. Her bright pink cast went from her fingertips to her elbow. She refused to allow anyone to write on it. Braxton was sure there was a story there somewhere, but Walker wasn’t talking.

  Her doctors had assured her that the multiple surgeries would give her full function, as long as she took it easy, completed her PT, and didn’t scratch.

  “May I join you?” said a deep, resonant voice.

  Braxton looked up and saw Hawthorne pulling a chair back from their table and sitting down. He was dressed casually in a tan sports coat and dark slacks.

  “Professor Hawthorne. I certainly didn’t expect to see you here.” Braxton was about to say something about an accidental meeting, but he quickly realized nothing about
this scientist would be accidental. “What brings you to Tysons Corner? And let me introduce—”

  Hawthorne raised his hand and waved Braxton’s words away. He turned to Walker. “The inventive Ms. Walker. How nice to finally meet you. I must say you are even lovelier than in your pictures. I’m sure that is very helpful in your line of work.”

  Walker’s face flushed. Braxton knew she blamed Hawthorne for most of the … difficulties they had encountered. She needed to let it out. But was now the time?

  She leaned forward across the table. “You knew it was Cutler all along, didn’t you?”

  Hawthorne adjusted his chair. It was satisfying to see the scientist uncomfortable. If only for a moment.

  “I suspected it might be her. But making an accusation would have been pointless. She had all the power. We needed proof. Which you were able to provide.”

  “Why not tell us? It might have avoided a lot of pain.”

  “You don’t know that, Ms. Walker. And I couldn’t do anything that might prejudice the investigation.”

  Walker started to scratch at her cast. Braxton hoped she wouldn’t explode. “You didn’t mind telling us about Prof. Donnelly and Dr. Turner.”

  “That was different. It was a fact that they were the only two who participated in all the projects whose results were leaked.”

  “The projects you were aware were leaked,” she corrected.

  Walker finally leaned back. It looked like the confrontation had ended. “How is Prof. Donnelly?”

  “Ian is … well. Physically, he has healed. But I’m afraid his ordeal has had a somewhat damaging effect on his career. My psychologist friends say he has PTSD. Ian has taken a leave of absence from Jason and from Stanford. It’s a significant loss to the scientific community. Honestly, I’m not sure where he is.”

  Walker hadn’t spoken to Donnelly since the Vienna hospital. Braxton knew she still blamed herself for his capture.

  “If you talk to him,” she said, “please give him my best.”