by PT Reade
Calling on ESU would have been the smart choice. The black-clad special tactics unit of the NYPD were created specifically for moments just like this, but time wasn’t on our side—noon was only three hours away—and the boys in black were already overextended.
It was down to the two of us.
The heavy fire door on the second landing opened to a long, dimly-lit hallway. There were numbered doors on either side of us. Number twenty-four was about half-way down on the right. Rey and I approached quietly and stood on either side. Silence. There was no hint of movement, not even the mumble of a television. Deathly quiet.
I locked eyes with Rey. We’d been friends and police partners in another life, for long enough to read each other’s thoughts.
It was go time. We both raised our guns, aiming them at the door. Rey released one hand from his weapon to knock. I shook my head. We couldn’t afford to announce ourselves. There were too many variables.
I tried the handle. It was locked. I stepped back into position, but Rey beat me to it. His foot landed solidly just below the door handle; the wood shuddered then stood still. A second solid kick splintered the door frame, blasting the wooden door inward. I blessed cheap construction and flimsy doors as we stepped into the gloomy interior, guns still raised. Rey stood tall, sweeping right-to-left. I crouched low, sweeping left-to-right.
The apartment was small. In seconds, we’d cleared the kitchen and living room area, two bedrooms, and one bathroom. We opened the closets, but there were no beds to look under. In fact, there were very few hiding places at all. The apartment was empty. Unfurnished.
No one was living here.
What the hell?
Back in the living room, Rey shrugged. “What do you make of it?” he asked.
I spun in a slow circle, taking in the dusty countertops and dirty windows. This was our only lead. There had to be a clue. I ran to the kitchen area and started pulling open drawers, coming up empty. I’d just slammed the freezer shut when a shrill ringing filled the air.
“Seriously, man?” I scolded Rey. “Silence your phone.”
“Not me,” he said, pointing to the living room space.
In the center of the floor, an old corded phone was ringing loudly, echoing off the empty space.
A sickly panic built in my stomach. Only one person could have this number.
I reached out tentatively and pulled the receiver free, panic rising. “Hello?”
“I’m disappointed, Blume.”
My heart dropped.
“It’s you,” I said, even though I still had no clue as to the bomber’s identity.
“We had a deal. You don’t try to find me, and I don’t give any more demonstrations.”
“You sick son of a bitch. People are dying!”
“You broke our agreement, Thomas. Now you must pay the penalty. You and your Latino friend,” the bomber said calmly.
He knew Rey was there.
He’s watching.
I dashed across the living room space in four strides and squinted at the grimy windows, to the tall buildings on the other side of the street. There were too many windows. He could be anywhere. He could be on a rooftop for all I knew. It was an uncomfortable feeling—being watched.
“Where are you!” I demanded.
The line clicked.
“Do you see him?” I asked Rey, who was also scanning the nearby buildings.
He shook his head. “What did he say?”
“This was a goddam set up the whole time. Some bullshit about breaking the agreement and a penalty.”
“A penalty? You don’t think …”
We simultaneously glanced around the apartment, both realizing we were in the trap of a skilled bomber.
“Shit, go!”
We bolted for the door. Rey kept pace behind me as I tore from the apartment and raced for the stairs, heart thundering. I hit the steps, taking them three at a time, descending fast.
“Call the bomb squad,” Rey said breathlessly behind me.
“I will. We just need to get out.”
If we can just—
We blasted into the lobby, I threw open the exit door and made it two paces into the street when the second bomb exploded.
THIRTY
One minute, I had my hand on the lobby door, shoving out onto the sidewalk, the next, my world erupted into heat and noise as a vehicle on the opposite side of the street exploded.
Everything went dark. I instinctively covered my head and stumbled as the blast pushed me backward.
The impact hit my face and chest, instantly overwhelming. The ringing in my ears, the burning on my face, the pounding in my head; if this was the afterlife, I sure as hell hadn’t gone in the right direction. I crouched, eyes watering, breath heaving as the heat slowly evaporated.
After a long minute, my senses fell back into place.
I struggled to straighten and glanced between the swirling clouds of smoke and debris. My hearing slowly returned, bringing with it a scream. A car alarm, too. A sickly police siren wailed, tumbling down from the sky. A woman crying, a child screaming.
I staggered to the curb and did a mental systems check. Bruised, yes. Aching and pissed off—also yes. Probably still alive. Glancing over my shoulder, I caught Rey dusting himself off near the apartment building entrance. He had been further from the blast than me and seemed ok, if a little shaken.
Car alarms blared, and people screamed. Fire and smoke billowed from what, moments before, had been a GMC van.
As the swirling dust clouds lifted skyward, the real horror of the situation dawned on me. The entire south face of the opposite side of the street had been blown in, debris, rubble, and wreckage was strewn across the road and sidewalk. But that wasn’t what burned hot in my chest, no, it was the bodies.
Three mangled corpses.
A young black woman, twisted and slumped awkwardly against a car. A man in a business suit bent at a grotesque angle near the sidewalk. And one more. My breath caught in my throat.
I raced the twenty feet it took to reach the small figure, but I already knew it was too late. His tiny head was face down and completely still. I reached down for a pulse, but there was nothing.
God, no.
This young boy had lost his life, and all because of me.
No, not me, I reminded myself. Him. The bomber.
Anger welled within me. My breathing came quicker as my fists bunched. Fire filled my thoughts as I imagined meeting the caller face to face. I made a vow there and then.
The bastard would pay for this. He would pay in blood.
My pocket vibrated and then trilled.
The cell phone.
I lifted the device to my ear. The fire grew bigger.
As the connection was made, I let into an angry stream of expletives, “Dammit, you didn’t need to … what the hell … all those people. You sick, twisted murderer!”
“I hope you are a quick learner. I’d hate to have to teach you another lesson.”
Click.
“Blume!” Rey called from behind me. “Are you ok?”
“I’m fine,” I snapped, unable to tear my eyes from the tiny figure at my feet.
“Dios Mio,” Rey uttered as he stepped up beside me, making the sign of the cross. “Is he?”
“Gone,” I swept an arm out. “They all are.”
“I can’t believe this, man. We had him. I mean. I thought we did. We were so close; I don’t understand. What the hell happened?”
“We were set up,” I replied. “One big fucking set-up. Someone’s been playing us from the start.”
I glanced around at the awful scene and scanned the buildings. We were being watched—no doubt about it. I checked the windows—the ones still intact, doorways, rooftops. Nothing. Even the side streets and nearby parking lot. It was all just routine traffic, what was left of it … except something else. A familiar vehicle. The same dark SUV I had seen twice over the last twenty-four hours.
Son of a bitch
.
I broke into a sprint, heading for the black Mercedes parked at the street corner. Rey called out from behind me, but I couldn’t make out the words. Anger drove me forward.
I closed to fifty feet before the occupants of the car noticed me. The engine gurgled into life, and the car started to pull away.
“No! Stop!”
The car made it ten feet before a toppled street light, and chunks of concrete forced it to slow and negotiate the hazard. I closed the distance.
Twenty feet.
Ten.
The SUV was about to pull away when I leaped over the hood and slid across to the driver’s door. I tried the handle, but it was locked. When that failed I hammered against the glass with my fist.
“Open up goddammit. Open this god damn door right now!”
When there was no response, I reached for my hip and pulled my revolver. The anger was surging through me; I didn’t think. I merely squeezed the trigger three times, aimed squarely at the driver’s window. But rather than shatter, the rounds scuffed the window and tumbled to the ground, leaving tiny cracks that barely marked the surface.
I stepped closer, ready to fire another round when the door opened suddenly into my chest, sending me stumbling to the ground. I raised my gun but paused. The front doors of the Mercedes opened, and two figures in suits stepped free. Without a second’s thought, they raised their weapons to match mine.
“Freeze!” the driver shouted. “Drop your weapon!” She was stiff-shouldered, dark hair tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail and black-rimmed glasses. Ex-military or government, for certain. There was a hint of a southern accent in there too. Louisiana or Tennessee perhaps.
“I’ll stop firing when you tell me what the hell is going on here. Why have you been following me today?”
The driver scowled at me and straightened her shooters stance. A pro. “Drop the gun, now. You’re not exactly in a position to ask questions. We have you outnumbered.”
“Not exactly,” Rey said, appearing from the other side of the vehicle, with his own pistol drawn.
“Bloody hell,” the man from the passenger side of the car muttered. This one was slimmer, with thinning grey hair that matched his impeccable suit. His droopy, exhausted face reminded me of a toy basset hound. His accent was English, London. The first I’d heard since returning to the States. “We don’t have any time for this Mexican standoff bollocks,” he continued. “Look, we’re on the same side here. I’m lowering my gun. Daly, do the same.”
The driver—Daly—looked to her associate, then to Rey and me, before finally, reluctantly, lowering her pistol.
The Brit holstered his SIG Saur in a concealed carrier under his jacket, then straightened his jacket.
Rey looked to me, and slowly, we lowered our weapons too.
Daly muttered something under her breath and climbed back into the driver’s seat, closing the door. Her partner stood and fixed us with a curious look. “Well, it’s nice to meet you in person at last. The infamous Thomas Blume.”
“And who the hell are you?” I snapped, climbing to my feet.
“That’s a long story,” the man replied.
“Shorten it.”
He began to speak, but then we were all interrupted by the wail of sirens as the first responders arrived. From inside the vehicle, Daly called out something, and the Brit nodded. Time to go.
The Brit opened a hand and motioned to the open door at the rear of the SUV. “I’m afraid we don’t have room for Mr. Sanchez but rest assured you will be quite safe with us. He is welcome to wait, or we can arrange another vehicle.”
I glanced at Rey, who shrugged. “I’ll be just fine.”
Believing him, I climbed into the car. The first thing that struck me was the cool air conditioning and plush leather seats.
The second thing that struck me was the third individual, sitting in the back.
A man I had met today once already.
THIRTY-ONE
I tamped down the anger and processed the new information as the car motored away from the curb. Rey headed back to the temporary station, and we agreed to stay in close contact.
I had to admit the SUV was roomy and rode smoothly along the city streets as we moved away from the scene of the blast. Once the red and blue lights disappeared in the rearview mirror, the Brit began to speak.
“Take the next left,” he instructed to his female colleague. “Excuse our manners, but it isn’t every day someone fires at our vehicle in broad daylight. It happens, but not every day. Thanks for testing out the ballistic glass—by the way,” he joked.
I wasn’t about to laugh until I knew who I was dealing with, and why.
“I’m Becker,” the Brit continued. “This here is Daly,” he added, indicating the driver with the southern accent. They offered no first name or rank, probably by intention.
I nodded to each. They already knew my name.
“And I think you already know Lynch,” He said, gesturing to the chisel-jawed man sitting beside me. He’s with the—”
“FBI,” I said. “We’ve crossed paths.”
“For what it’s worth,” Lynch opened, “I’m sorry about what happened at the station. We needed all-hands-on-deck, and I had to take charge. I wish we could have spoken earlier, you’ve had quite the day.”
“You’ve been watching me?” I asked.
Lynch shrugged in confirmation but said nothing.
“Just part of the assignment,” Daly said, up front.
“What goddamned assignment?”
“We’re coming to that,” Becker replied. “You Yanks are always in such a hurry. I think what agent Lynch was trying to say was that we are grateful for your work today, but it’s time to combine our efforts.”
“And who’s we? I replied sardonically.
“That’s a little harder to explain. Let’s just say we are a multi-agency initiative. A very specific team. That includes myself, Lynch and Ms. Daly there.”
“Agent Daly,” the woman replied flatly.
Studying the driver’s posture and outward manner, I suspected she was CIA or FBI, though I had no way to immediately confirm it. They were definitely government, clearly working intelligence. Becker, though, was from the other side of the pond. Not even an immigrant, from his clothes. If anything, he was MI6. I couldn’t help but wonder why they were watching me of all people.
“Pleasure to finally meet you all.” My words dripped with sarcasm.
“Technically, we met before,” Becker admitted, “but I doubt you remember, there were a lot of stern-looking men in suits around, that day.”
That got my mind racing. When had I met him before? Maybe following my incident at the Houses of Parliament. I’d lost count of the police officers and intelligence agents who’d given me the third degree. First the adrenaline, and then the fatigue had washed their faces in a blur. Still, if Becker had his sights on me overseas, it would explain his presence. If he’d continued his watch when I returned to New York, it would make sense for him to partner with someone from the home team.
I was shocked as it sunk in how long I’d been watched. Had they been with me all along? If so, why hadn’t I spotted them and why hadn’t they helped me before? Every time I’d barely escaped with my life, where had they been? I was curious to know how carefully they observed the number of times I’d staggered home, drunk. How many petty crimes they’d witnessed. I’ve never claimed to be a boy scout. Sometimes, exposing the truth didn’t align with the law.
In any case, I wasn’t about to mention it just yet. I’d get them to show their hand first.
“What do you want with me?” I asked. “There’s a goddam bomber out there, and you’re wasting my time.”
“Teach,” Daly silenced my protests with a single word, without taking her eyes off the road. Teach seemed to be a favorite target. Me, the bomber, and now the spooks. Everyone was after him, but we all had different motives.
“I don’t know where he is,” I said. “Besi
des, if you want Teach, you better take a number.”
Lynch smiled without humor, and said, “He’s in high demand. MI6, Russian FSA, Mossad, CIA, everyone is trying to track him down.”
“You want me to find him for you, too?” I said, thinking about the bomber. I’d learned to keep my cards hidden. I had more than a few scars that demonstrated who not to trust. “I just told you I have no idea. You and your buddies have far more resources than me, anyway.”
“True, but resources will only get you so far. What we need is someone who understands the man.”
“You think I’ll lead you to Teach? He’s in the wind.”
“You may know more than you realize,” Daly said.
“I know nothing,” I said.
“He’s dangerous,” Becker warned.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Becker seemed to miss my sarcasm. “As you wish.” He pulled free a computer tablet from the center console and began reading from the screen. “Roland Teach is a tough son of a bitch. Born and raised in South London, rough neighborhood. Father was an alcoholic; mother died when he was only three. Our Mr. Teach ended up getting in trouble with the law when he was eighteen, and had a choice, prison or the army.”
“I can guess which one he chose.”
“Joined the paratroopers and excelled, in fact. Eventually transferred to special forces, designated marksman. Hell of a shot—still holds the record at Hereford. That was until he was recruited for a top-secret unit, an international task force.”
This was new information, but I kept a steady expression, hiding my surprise.
“The team—designation IG8, was a joint effort between JSOC, the DoD, and the MoD. Eventually, others joined, but those agencies were the originators.”
“Save the acronyms, huh fellas? Give it to me in English.”
“Black ops, basically,” Lynch said. “A small group of elite soldiers from around the world. Tough dudes, but the best at what they did. They could perform ops that would never be sanctioned officially by any government. They were tasked with protecting the interests of the West, without Uncle Sam, or Her Majesty getting their hands dirty.”
“Great, so Teach and his G.I. Joe buddies are off saving the world and then what?”