by Mason Cross
I didn’t say anything. It was a modest dream, as the dreams of multimillion-dollar techno-criminals went.
“You’ve gone quiet, Blake. What are you thinking?”
I smiled. That had been one of Carol’s stock phrases, asking me What are you thinking about? whenever I’d been quiet for a little too long.
“I’m thinking that sounds like it would have been nice.”
“You think she’d have come?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know your wife. But I can tell you one thing from experience—there’s no such thing as a fresh start.”
“No?”
“No. You can run away from everything, you can take a new name, a new job ... but there are some things you take with you, no matter how much you wish it wasn’t so.”
“And there’s always people who remember you, right?”
“Right.”
Bryant gathered the discarded cards from the table, squared them, and put them back in the pack. “On that note, I think I’ll turn in. How long until Chicago?”
“We’ll be there around four tomorrow afternoon.”
Bryant gave an exasperated sigh and climbed into the top bunk. I heard the springs in the mattress settle. Less than ten minutes later, he began to snore. I wondered if the act of talking about how he came to be here had been a weight off. It had been the opposite for me.
I sat back and looked out of the window again. I thought about the odds of me making it to my destination. And then I thought about the longer odds of the two of us getting out of this in one piece.
I would have to try to get some sleep in a while. But not before the next stop.
SATURDAY, JANUARY 9TH
36
MINNESOTA
The Lockheed JetStar was buffeted by a cross-stream of chill northerly winds as they began their descent. Stark glanced out the window again, but there was nothing to see. Even if they were over a population cluster, the lights would be cloaked by the blanket of moonlit clouds below. He glanced up at the sound of the hinges creaking on the cockpit door as Ortega appeared from within and gave a nod.
“Ten minutes to touchdown. Pilot says it will be bumpy.”
Stark nodded and fastened his seat belt. He looked at the other two men seated nearby: Usher had done likewise, yanking the strap on the belt tight. Kowalski smiled and slouched in his seat, making no effort to fasten the buckle. He was slightly too big for the seat to be comfortable, but then, Kowalski’s size was the reason Murphy had suggested him, rather than Abrams, for the advance team. Given the probable location of their target, close-quarters combat was a distinct possibility.
“Long as nobody’s shooting at us on the approach, I’m happy,” Kowalski said.
Stark swallowed at the first of a series of dips as the pilot began his approach. He had never been a fan of flying, and five years of regular air travel, sometimes into enemy territory, hadn’t made him like it any more. He guessed it was one of those things you didn’t get used to; you just learned to put up with it. Stark almost preferred it on the few occasions he had been aboard a plane under enemy fire—it took his mind off the flying.
The pilot had been reluctant to make the trip, back at the little airfield south of Seattle. He had pointed to FAA guidance suggesting not to fly unless necessary. There were pockets of storms all the way along the flight path. Farther east, it was getting even worse: They were planning for a full shutdown of all commercial flights in the Northeastern states if the things kept going the same way. But then, as Kowalski said, they’d all made trips in conditions worse than these.
Another steep dip flipped Stark’s stomach, and he thought about the mission to keep his mind off the descent. There would be a car waiting for them at the small provincial airport. If, as predicted, they were on the ground inside of ten minutes, they would actually be slightly ahead of schedule. It was a short drive to the Amtrak railroad station at Detroit Lakes on night roads. Local forecast said snow, but nothing that would shut the roads down. The Empire Builder—still on schedule according to Amtrak’s website—would roll into the station at three ten.
Another dip and they dropped below cloud cover. Clusters of lights spread out below marked out the small towns of Minnesota. Freezing rain streaked the Plexiglas windows, blurring the lights, and the jet lurched a little to the left as another gust of wind butted into them.
Focus on the mission. Was Blake still aboard the train? Stark supposed it could have been a bluff, a way to send them off on a wild-goose chase while Blake laid low or took another route out of Seattle. But he thought not, on balance. Too many variables. Travers had gotten lucky finding Bryant on the security tape. There was a good chance they would never have found it.
Once the four of them were aboard the train, they would have time to find him. It would be a full hour to the next stop at the small town of Staples, and it would be easy to spot him if he tried to leave there. After that, there was only one stop for the next three and a half hours. Of course, this was all based on the assumption that Blake was still on the train and hadn’t gotten off at any of the intermediate stops between Seattle and Detroit Lakes, but again, on balance of probability, it was likely he was aboard. Faraday seemed to be convinced that Blake’s base of operations was on the East Coast, and the Empire Builder would take him most of the way there.
The rear wheels thumped down on the tarmac, actually surprising Stark. He tensed as the front wheels contacted a moment later and skidded slightly on the snow. He let out a breath as the plane straightened up and the reverse thrust kicked in, slowing them down.
The four of them stood up and grabbed their packs from the overhead lockers. Stark removed his shoulder holster from the pack and strapped it over his chest, then checked the Glock 19 before sliding it into the holster. Lastly, he grabbed the black parka from the locker and put it on. The other three men went through a similar routine as the pilot brought the jet to a stop. A minute later, the copilot was unlocking the hatch and swinging it open. A gust of wind and snow blew in at them, the temperature abruptly dropping in the cabin. Stark checked his watch again. Thirty-two minutes until their rendezvous with Carter Blake.
37
MINNESOTA
I had fallen asleep in the seat, but the change in the motion of the train stirred me as we approached a station. I opened one eye and glanced out of the window—Detroit Lakes, Minnesota. If we were on schedule, that meant it was a little after three in the morning, which explained why the platform was so quiet. Not quite deserted, though. As our car rolled by the waiting area, I saw a lone figure in a dark-colored hooded parka watching the train pull in, hanging back in the shadows.
I opened the other eye to get a better look before the figure passed out of my line of sight. I was pretty sure it was a man, and I was also pretty sure he intended to get on the train. He had a small backpack strapped on. He was on his feet, ready to move once the train ground to a halt. It was odd that he wasn’t standing farther out on the platform, getting ready to board. But he wasn’t Amtrak staff, and there was no other reason to be at the station in the middle of the night unless he was picking somebody up.
I got up and reversed my position to the other seat, trying to see back down the platform. Bryant grunted in his sleep in the berth above me.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the guy in the parka was just picking somebody up, backpack notwithstanding. Maybe he had some other reason for not approaching the train. But I don’t like maybes, so I pressed the side of my head against the glass and squinted down the floodlit platform. The snow had started falling again, the flakes lazily drifting across my field of view.
I saw a couple get off from the next car, the woman was shivering in a leather jacket. Just about okay for Seattle in January, not so much for Minnesota. The man wrapped an arm around her and they walked quickly to the exit, lugging a pair of suitcases, their breath making clouds in the night air. Mumbled, indistinct sounds of conversation from the pair managed to penetrate th
e glass before they moved out of range. I heard a couple of brief yells from one of the train staff, answered by a station-bound coworker. I kept watching. No more disembarkations. Those were the exception, rather than the rule, particularly at this time of night. The majority of the passengers were on for the whole trip. A second later I heard a shout from the guard, signaling that we were good to go.
And then I saw the man in the parka cross the platform, moving quickly and purposefully toward the doors about two cars down from us. And he wasn’t alone. Three more men, dressed similarly in parkas and hoods, with packs, emerged from the shadows and followed.
The guard yelled again, and the pitch of the engine rose and the Empire Builder began to roll out of the station at Detroit Lakes.
With four new passengers.
FIVE YEARS AGO
KANDAHAR, AFGHANISTAN
Martinez was gone.
He had simply disappeared in the night, in a way that should not have been possible. Standard protocol was, two men on watch at all times. Martinez had offered to swap with Dixon to take the two to six shift, along with Ortega. But Ortega was notorious for sleeping on the job, and this time had been no exception. He had sat at the north window, brim of his hat over his eyes, and positioned himself so that it looked like he was watching. If anything happened in the night, he would wake soon enough. But whatever had happened, there hadn’t been any noise loud enough to wake him. Instead, he’d awoken as the full moon broke through a patch in the cloud cover a little after five, the brightness rousing him. He had known something was wrong right away. He checked the back room and found the rest of us sleeping, but no sign of Martinez.
Ortega immediately woke us and said he had dozed off for a few minutes. When this was met with skepticism, he’d admitted Martinez could have gone at any point in the previous two hours. No sign of him, no note, no warning. We tried to raise him and got nothing. He had taken his pack and his weapons. The possibility that an unfriendly had infiltrated the safe house was discussed and quickly discarded. There was no sign of a scuffle, and if the building had been compromised, either we would all have known about it, or we’d be dead.
No, for whatever reason, no matter how little sense it made, Martinez had picked up his belongings, unlocked the door, and walked into the freezing Kandahar night.
The others tossed theories around while we decided what to do and whether to delay our raid on the Wolf’s lair. I remained quiet, thinking about the look on Martinez’s face the night before. I left the other four debating courses of action in the south room and walked through the bare doorway into the back room where Martinez’s equipment had been set up. Collins was at the desk, checking through the contents of the drawer.
“Lost something?” I said.
His head jerked up, and I saw something like panic in his eyes for a split second before he composed himself. He shook his head. “Just looking for ...”
“Looking for ...” I prompted, when he didn’t continue.
“For an explanation, I guess. Where the hell has he gone?”
I held his gaze for a moment before shrugging. “I don’t know. You want to call off?”
Before Collins could answer, Murphy appeared at my side.
“Vanished like a virginity on prom night. Any ideas, hoss?” he said, addressing Collins.
Collins looked back at him, like there was something he wanted to say, but then just shook his head.
“You want to call off?” I asked again.
Collins thought about it. “No. No, we go ahead. Martinez can take his chances, wherever the hell he is.”
An hour later, we were on the road. The sky was still dark, but the dirty yellow sodium streetlights were extinguished: one of the city’s frequent rolling blackouts.
We took two vehicles. Murphy, Collins, and Dixon were in one car. I rode in the other with Ortega, both of us very conscious of being a man down. We took separate, prearranged routes. I watched the early-morning sidewalks pass by, the locals not giving us a second glance. There was no reason to; we were riding in a beat-up Citroen, not a Humvee, and our dress did nothing to make us stand out as Americans. We crossed through the main city boundary and into the Kotali Murcha neighborhood. The line of garages we had spent days watching from above was four blocks ahead when Ortega pulled off the road. We backed into the alley that we had chosen as the best retrieval point, and Ortega switched the engine off and killed the lights. Mid-November, so the sun wouldn’t start to rise for another half hour.
I called in our location to the other car, which was circling the area until we got a confirmed visual on Ajmal al Wazir— the Wolf. Ortega and I left the car and moved quickly toward our positions. Ortega crouched just inside the mouth of an alley diagonally across from the line of garages while I moved a little farther down the street. My assigned role was observation and recon, and I wasn’t going to get involved in the rough stuff unless I was needed. Because of that, and especially because I had to avoid attracting attention, I was armed only with my Beretta, which I kept holstered underneath my jacket. Ortega and the others had MP5s, and wouldn’t be making their presence known until the time for stealth was over.
Martinez’s satellite surveillance had suggested that al Wazir traveled light, normally with only three or four men. They had been making this trip for days with no trouble, so I hoped the level of trouble we were about to bring would come as something of a surprise.
I crossed the street, keeping my eyes on the stretch of road headed east, the direction from which we expected the Wolf to approach. I glanced at my wristwatch as I reached the other side: 07:13. I stepped underneath one of the awnings sheltering the stores that lined this side of the road. From this position, I had sight of the line of garages down the street and also of the spot I knew to be Ortega’s position at the mouth of the alley, not that he was allowing himself to be seen.
The line of stores was varied. Most were still closed, but two were already open and another—a butcher’s shop—was in the process of opening. I watched as the owner began hanging the day’s carcasses on a rail that overhung the entrance and the sidewalk. Next door was a café. It was open, but the three small tables outside were unoccupied this early on a winter morning. On the other side was some kind of junk store—it was hard to tell what exactly it sold, other than clutter. A tall, skinny man was sweeping the sidewalk outside. He glanced at me, nodded, and looked back down at his work. I turned the other way and spoke just loud enough for my voice to be picked up by the mic.
“This is two. I’m in position.”
Ortega’s voice immediately answered, crystal clear through the tiny receiver nestled in my right ear.
“One, in position. Picking this up, six?”
“Copy that,” Collins replied. “In position. No visual on Big Bad.”
“He’s late,” I said.
I looked up and down the street. Traffic was almost non-existent on this particular stretch of road, but all around I could hear the sounds of a city slowly rising to meet the day. From far off, I heard the whine of a motorcycle. The man with the broom was still working away. I glanced at the hanging carcasses outside the butcher’s shop, swaying slightly in the breeze. Nothing that looked appetizing, even if I had been at all hungry. I raised my eyes and looked through the window of the store. An older man within was smoking a cigarette, regarding me with suspicion.
I moved along to the next unit, the café. I glanced up and down the street again: still nothing. I positioned myself where I could pretend to be regarding the menu in the window while still keeping a good view of the street.
“What’s the matter, you skip breakfast?” Ortega’s voice in my ear. I smiled and said nothing, because the owner of the café was coming out to see me. He regarded me with the standard level of caution. He spoke in Pashto.
“Coffee? You want something to eat?”
I glanced back at the road, which was still empty.
“Coffee,” I agreed. “No milk.”
&n
bsp; He held his hand out toward the door, but I pulled out one of the chairs outside.
“I’ll sit out here.”
He looked like he was about to question me, and then shrugged and disappeared back inside to fix the coffee. A customer was a customer, even if he was crazy enough to want to dine al fresco in November before the sun came up. I sat down, feeling the comforting weight of the Beretta settle on my chest.
“This is two. What’s happening?” I said quietly through gritted teeth.
“This is six. Stand by,” came Collins’s response.
Where the hell was he? Not a break in the routine in days, and we knew the cars hadn’t been moved from the garage. Had the Wolf decided to take a day off? Or had he been tipped off? I thought about Martinez and immediately dismissed it. I had a good idea why he’d split, and if I was right, it had precisely zero to do with the mission in hand.
Collins spoke again. “This is six. We have a visual.”
I held my breath. I barely even noticed as the café owner placed the cup of coffee in front of me. The scent drifted up to my nose in the cold air.
“Okay?” the owner said, glancing from the coffee to me, a concerned expression on his face.
“Tashakor,” I replied.
If they had a visual and they were still in their designated position, that meant the Wolf and his entourage were seconds away from rounding the corner.
I counted the seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Nothing.
I cleared my throat loudly and spoke under my breath. “This is two. Update?”
“Wait one,” Collins’s voice said.
Just to keep my hands occupied, I picked up the cup and sipped the coffee. As I swallowed, Collins spoke again.
“Target is turning back. Something’s wrong.”
I cursed under my breath, hearing a similar noise from Ortega. A second later, Ortega was in my ear again. “Two, get the fuck out of there.”