The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich

by Lars Emmerich

  “I meant for you. I don’t know how to help the baby.”

  The plane broke through the European undercast on its approach to Budapest. Sam’s window seat on the west side of the jet afforded her a spectacular view of the Danube River and one of Europe’s most spectacular cities, cast in an angelic sunrise glow.

  Even from the air, there was a sense of permanence and significance about the place, all stone and gentility and gravitas, not like the endless miles of shitty strip malls and pop-up suburban houses she was used to seeing in her native land.

  Maybe the Europeans had figured a few things out, she mused.

  She strengthened her resolve to find a way to spend some quality time in Budapest.

  The plane landed and taxied to the gate. As the flight crew prepared to open the door, Sam let go of vacation thoughts and prepared herself. She was pretty sure that she had been under surveillance on her earlier flight. There was no reason to believe she wouldn’t be surveilled in Budapest as well.

  She wasn’t wrong. She disembarked, a weary expression on her face that was only partially feigned, and casually scanned the crowd gathered at the gate.

  She saw him.

  32A.

  Looking right at her, with intent in his eyes. He looked away, but much too slowly.

  Sam’s pulse pounded. She felt adrenaline hit her stomach.

  The familiar rush overtook her, the sensation of danger, of cold reality, of heightened stakes. It was clarifying and terrifying and intoxicating all at once. She felt absolutely, outrageously alive.

  Her instincts kicked in.

  She was utterly alone in a foreign city. Someone else’s home turf. She had a gun in her purse, but they — whoever they happened to be — had home field advantage. And they also had an information advantage. 32A couldn’t have been following her unless he had a serious jump on her. She’d received her tickets just a couple of hours before departure. How had they known her travel plans before she did?

  Outnumbered and playing the away game. That really only left one arrow in her quiver: surprise.

  Sam walked up to 32A, stuck out her hand, and said in a loud voice, “It’s great to see you again! I thought that was you on the earlier flight, but now I’m positive. How have you been?”

  32A looked bewildered, flustered. His eyes darted forty-five degrees to his left. Sam took note. Undoubtedly the man’s backup. Her gambit had worked, and he was looking for help.

  “I’m sorry,” 32A said. “I don’t believe we’re acquainted.” Thick Russian accent. Precisely the Eastern European overtones his obvious Slavic features would have suggested.

  Again, Sam took note, yet didn’t pause a beat. She put her hand to her mouth, feigning a loud, embarrassed laugh. She tossed her head back, turning as she did so to find 32A’s partner.

  Female. Unusual, but not unheard of. Brown hair, high cheeks, dark eyes. Gorgeous. Started fishing in her purse for something, almost quickly enough to avoid Sam’s notice. Almost.

  The slender brunette also had that operational vibe about her. A hardness, a precision in the way her eyes moved, a quickness and intelligence that took even more years to hide than it did to develop.

  Sam repeated her apologies to 32A, let her phony but genuine-sounding laugh ring a few seconds longer for effect, and made her way to the airport exit. She walked quickly. She donned a pair of oversized sunglasses, her eyes never resting as she walked, scanning left and right, checking for nothing in particular except that one particular thing that would give away another operative.

  She glimpsed the throng at baggage claim and made the difficult decision to abandon her suitcase full of sundries and lingerie. It wasn’t smart to wait for baggage in a foreign city with operatives sniffing around, Sam decided. Maybe waiting would be harmless. But maybe not. And mistakes were often lethal. She shook her head, but brightened at the prospect of a shopping trip with Brock to replenish her supply of sweet nothings.

  As she approached the taxi stand, her pulse quickened again. Changing transportation modes was always a terribly dangerous time.

  She reached into her ridiculously expensive Prada handbag, felt the comforting heft of her .45 semi auto, and thumbed off the safety lever. She had one in the chamber and seven more in the clip. Eight more in her spare magazine, tucked into her purse’s side pocket.

  Enough heavy metal for serious head-banging, if it came to that.

  Welcome to Budapest.

  Was this some sort of cold war hangover? She was manifested as a Homeland agent, so it wasn’t unheard of that the Hungarian government might put a set of eyeballs on her. Uncle Sugar wasn’t as well-loved across the globe as he thought he was.

  That might explain the surveillance in Budapest. But it sure as hell wouldn’t explain the tail on her flight from DC to Brussels. The tickets had been bought just a few hours earlier.

  Her turn came in the cab line. She gripped her .45 inside her purse as she settled into the backseat of the cab. “Rendőrkapitányságok,” she said to the driver, foisting on him what was undoubtedly horrid Hungarian.

  The driver raised his eyebrows.

  Sam repeated her request, altering her pronunciation slightly.

  “I understood you the first time,” the cabbie said in nearly perfect English. “But I thought you were a little crazy. Nobody goes there unless they absolutely have to.”

  Sam smiled. “I absolutely have to.”

  The cabbie shrugged. “Police headquarters it is.” He pulled out of the cab line and joined the rush of traffic leaving the terminal. “It’s not every day I’m asked to drive there,” he said, eyeballing Sam’s cleavage in the mirror. “And most days I alter my route to stay away.” He had a toothy smile and a smoky chuckle.

  “Sounds like smart policy,” Sam said. She smiled politely, hand on her pistol, heart rate settling down a little, senses still on full alert.

  It definitely felt like game time.

  But who were the players? And what game were they playing?

  She felt that familiar, inexorable pull, away from normalcy and safety and routine and into the abyss of an evolving situation, exactly opposite the direction she’d resolved to move her life.

  She took a deep breath. She was definitely along for the ride.

  7

  The cell door opened. Nero awoke with a start. He was momentarily disoriented, then reality descended with a brutal weight.

  This time, it wasn’t Special Agent America. It was a lackey. Some slovenly looking guard with a weak chin and a spare tire around his midsection. His face looked mean and stupid. Nero knew the type well. What did losers do when they wanted to feel permanently superior? They became prison guards. The recognition brought back a long-dormant dread and loathing in his gut.

  “Get up, Chiligiris,” the guard said.

  Nero didn’t. “I want a lawyer.”

  “It’s three in the morning, tough guy.”

  “I don’t care what time it is. I demand to speak to an attorney.”

  “You’re not really in a position to make demands,” the guard said with a smirk.

  A second guard walked in with chains. “We’re taking a little trip. You’re not going to be a problem this morning, are you?”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Stand up, Chiligiris. Hands out in front, fingers open, palms up.”

  Nero knew the warning signs of a guard about to flex muscle. Or flab, as the case may have been. He complied.

  The guards shuffled him out of the cell and down the long, blank hallway.

  The chains were a visceral reminder of his prison years. His feet were chained together, forcing him to walk in unnatural, halting steps. His arms were bound to his feet, preventing him from raising them above his waist.

  Bile rose within him. He had vowed never to put himself in this kind of situation again. He had kept his nose clean. He hadn’t hurt anybody.

  He was wicked angry, but he kept his composure. Resistance would have been ill-
conceived and ill-advised. And it would have put him on the wrong side of karma.

  They led him out a set of double doors onto a loading dock. A white prison transport truck awaited, rear doors open and tailgate backed up to the loading dock. “Watch your head,” the guard said.

  Nero ducked into the van. The benches ran the wrong way, forcing him to sit sideways. The air was still and stuffy. “Buckle up,” the guard instructed.

  The van doors shut. The engine started, a new diesel, much more power than the van needed, but it was public money so why the hell not.

  The driver lurched the van forward, jerking Nero sideways. “Easy, man,” Nero said through the open window to the crew cab. “I get carsick.”

  The driver eyed him in the mirror. “Not in this van, you don’t.”

  “I’m not messing. Turn that AC on or I’ll be blowing chunks in five minutes.”

  The driver complied. Soon a blast of cool air dried the sweat on Nero’s brow. “Thanks, man. Really appreciate it.”

  No reply.

  “Where we going?”

  No reply.

  “Seriously, man. Where are you taking me?”

  No reply.

  The van jostled, turned, stopped, started again, accelerated, kept accelerating. On the highway now. I-25, by the looks of it. Heading south.

  Nero settled his head against the side of the van. He closed his eyes, felt the hum of the road deep in his skull, tried to clear his mind of the fear and rage.

  Penny. What must she be thinking?

  When Nero awoke, the sun was up. The air conditioner blasted cold air. He shivered. He debated whether to ask the driver to lower the setting. He decided against it.

  He heard the click of the turn signal, felt the van decelerate, felt it turn off of the highway. Colorado Springs, a sign said. Another sign advertised a police station, with an arrow pointing the way. The prison van turned to follow the arrow.

  “Where are we going?” Nero asked again.

  He got no answer.

  The driver pulled around to the back of the police station and stopped the van. He turned to face Nero. “Place your hands on your lap, palms up, fingers extended. No sudden movements.”

  The back doors opened. Two more guards. One more prisoner, a thin, brown, Middle-Eastern-looking guy, maybe in his early twenties. The prisoner took a seat on the bench opposite and offset from Nero. He looked angry. Dangerous, even.

  The doors slammed, and the driver put the van in gear. Moving again.

  Nero looked at the young prisoner across from him. The man didn’t make eye contact.

  “You know where they’re taking us?” Nero asked him. “They wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  “Florence,” the man said.

  “Where?”

  The Arab man looked at him. “Supermax. In Florence.”

  “The federal joint?”

  A nod.

  “You serious, man? The big house, with no trial?”

  The young prisoner sneered. “Trial? This is America, bro. You’re the wrong color for a trial.”

  Nero didn’t know what to make of the statement. “Seriously, do you know what’s going on?”

  “We’re being taken to the federal maximum security facility in Florence, awaiting the disposition of our cases.” The young Arab made air quotes around disposition and cases. His chains rattled as he put his arms back in his lap.

  “You been charged?” Nero asked.

  A derisive laugh. “Charged? With being a sand nigger in a white man’s land, maybe.”

  “Seriously, what did they get you for?” Nero asked.

  The young man shook his head. “Skin color, man. Serious as a heart attack. Me and a few other guys from my mosque.”

  “You have a mosque?”

  “I go to a mosque.”

  “I didn’t know how it worked,” Nero said.

  “Infidel.”

  Nero arched his eyes.

  The young man laughed. “I’m just kidding, man. I’m not a radical. I’m a college student. Engineering. I happen to be Muslim. I don’t have any ties to the Middle East. I was born here. But nobody listens.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around,” Nero said. “What’s your name?”

  “Robert.” A strange name for a Muslim man, Nero thought. But then again, what did he know about Muslim men?

  Nero offered his name and his hand.

  The young man shook it, their chains making the gesture awkward.

  A few more miles passed. No words passed between them. Then Nero’s curiosity got the better of him. “How’d they nab you?”

  The young man snorted and shook his head. “Like some kind of a movie, man. I was out running. I’m training for a marathon. It was a long run, fifteen miles. I was way out in the middle of nowhere. I like to clear my head sometimes, just get out on the trail, no cars around, no phone, no civilization.”

  Nero nodded.

  “I had to have been three miles from the nearest person,” Robert went on. “Just got to the top of a big hill.”

  “Let me guess,” Nero said. “Helicopters.”

  Robert nodded. “I really thought I was going to piss myself,” he said. “I mean, they scared the living shit out of me. Completely out of nowhere, and then they were right on top of me.”

  Nero nodded. He knew the feeling.

  “I thought it had to be a misunderstanding. I figured it would get straightened out, and I’d have a good story to tell.” Robert shook his head. “But that was three days ago. No lawyer, no charges, no nothing. Not even a phone call.”

  8

  It was a glorious late summer day. Sam’s taxi drove northwest from the Budapest airport on Highway 4. The driver had his window down. Sam could smell the water of the Danube, off to the west. Budapest was split into two halves and two personalities by the ancient river. She was on the flat side of town, the eastern side, driving northwest into the center of the city.

  The cab driver seemed to sense her state of mind, as the good ones did, and gave her space. None of the obvious questions, none of the hackneyed banalities. Just A to B, with a fresh breeze and a view to die for.

  She was thinking about how nice it would be to take a week off. Or maybe how nice it would have been. She wasn’t quite certain how things would play out, but the sight of Budapest at street level strengthened her resolve to spend some quality time, taking it slow and deep with Brock.

  Work felt distant. The immediacy of the surveillance team she spotted at the airport seemed to fade into the slow pace of the city. It wasn’t a terribly slow pace, but almost anything was more relaxed than the DC grind.

  Her government Blackberry buzzed. A text from Tom Davenport. “Did you get my email?” Her stomach churned, her jaw clenched, and she flexed her hand in and out of a fist.

  But she didn’t reply.

  She looked at her watch. Midnight in DC. Somebody clearly had Davenport hopping. The sackless bastard was probably dancing for a good performance report.

  The Budapest Central police station was a round building situated several blocks east of the river, with a huge spire on top, with platforms at various intervals on the way up to the top, almost like guard stations. Sam had no idea how old the building was, but she envisioned counterrevolutionary Stalinist hard-liners with sniper rifles picking off agitators from atop the minaret-like structure during the ill-fated revolution in the fifties.

  She got out at the police station, walked briskly but unhurriedly through the first set of double doors, and waited between doorways for a couple of minutes, hiding in glare and shadow while watching for a tail, pretending to check her phone. She didn’t spot anything unusual.

  She went through the second set of double doors and announced herself at the front desk. She made her best attempt at greeting the desk sergeant in Hungarian. He smiled benignly at her accent and said hello in English.

  “Special Agent Mark Severn of the US Department of Homeland Security died in an accident her
e yesterday,” Sam said. “I’m told there’s some paperwork I need to take care of?”

  “Of course. Right this way.” The desk sergeant led her through a grandiose entry hall into a cubicle farm. It looked like a standard office warren, though somehow more Byzantine.

  Through no visible means of navigation, the desk sergeant guided them to a particular cubby. In the cubicle sat a short man with glasses. The man looked the way clerks looked all over the world. Bookish, glasses drooping down his nose, annoyed at the interruption. “Yes. Come,” the clerk said.

  The desk sergeant took his leave, and Sam followed the small, slight clerk deeper into the bowels of the headquarters building.

  They walked out of the cube farm and into an elevator lobby. The clerk pushed the down button. Sam found that strange, because they were on the first floor already. As they waited for the elevator, Sam noticed a stairway door to their immediate left. Half a minute later, the elevator arrived. They rode down one floor to the basement. The doors took forever to open. Sam shook her head. Walking would have been faster by a factor of twenty. The clerk must have been paid by the hour, she decided.

  The bookish little man led her down a dank hallway. It smelled like stagnant water and extremely old paper. He unlocked a door off the main hallway, held it open for her, and motioned toward a wall of lockboxes, not unlike the inside of a bank vault.

  The clerk produced a key and pulled open one of the lockers, then unceremoniously dumped its contents onto the table.

  A wallet. A service pistol, a government-issue 9mm Beretta. A fine weapon. Never fired in anger. Sam would have heard about it otherwise. Along with Severn’s DHS badge, which looked very official, the weapon was the reason the police station had ahold of Severn’s belongings, rather than the hospital where his body was taken after the accident.

  Severn’s wallet, government-issue Blackberry, and personal iPhone were also in the pile of belongings. A hotel key, a receipt for lunch with two entrees and two sörök — beers — among the charged items, a rental car key, and three condoms rounded out the pile.