The Polaris Protocol

by Brad Taylor

  He took it and began retracing his steps to the park, this time staying away from the four-lane road and moving down the paths that meandered throughout, thinking about his next steps.

  The killer with the scarred face had taken his money, but he still had the credit cards. He could withdraw as much cash as they allowed as a cushion, then buy a plane ticket home with them. He thought for a minute and realized the trap he was setting for himself.

  The Americans knew the name on the card, knew the account, and they’d be watching. He would need to buy many different plane tickets to confuse them. If he bought enough, spread throughout several days, he’d increase his odds of escaping. Perhaps he’d head to Europe first, while they staged for a flight to Lebanon.

  The thought reminded him that he’d have to ditch the credit cards the minute he left Mexico. Buying the tickets here would be a risk, but using the al-Qaeda credit card at any final destination would be suicide. And he had no access to cash because that devil had decided to empty his al-Qaeda bank account. All he would have was the measly amount he could draw on the cards.

  The truth rankled him. Why should that man get all of his money? Why didn’t he agree to the purchase price?

  He reached the first intersection and saw a sitio taxi stand, for government-regulated cabs that wouldn’t attempt to rob him after he got inside. Not that that would matter. He was on the run now, and anyone who stood in his way, be it for petty cash or his capture, would die.

  He gave the cabby the name of a hotel he’d seen on his walking tours earlier, far away from where he’d stayed before with Mr. Pink and Mr. Black, in a decidedly less touristy part of town. He secretly hoped the cabby would try something. Give him some reason to vent his frustration.

  The man looked at his thick glasses and started to grin, intent on fleecing him for more money than a simple drive to a hotel was worth. Then he saw the eyes behind the glasses. He turned around without a word.

  In the back, the Ghost opened the computer he’d taken off of the table. On the screen was Pelón’s bank account, still open with the password in place. He stared at the Web page, considering his options. This man held the key to his future. The chance at a new life, with money that was rightfully his. He didn’t care if Pelón kept half, but it wasn’t fair for him to have it all.

  He tapped some keys, ensuring the password was saved in the computer registry and would automatically be filled in when he reached this page again. He knew he couldn’t transfer any money without the digital token Pelón had, but that was okay. He would see any transactions the man made and could track him down. Could find him.

  When he did, he’d have a discussion about sharing the money. About giving the Ghost what was rightfully his. Get him to use the bank’s digital token to transfer cash into a new account. One that would give the Ghost a new life.

  Pelón wouldn’t do so out of goodwill, the Ghost knew. After their brief encounter, he understood the man was like a rabid dog, looking for something to bite. And he had the skill to bite deep. The thought brought no fear. The Ghost knew his own capabilities well. If he didn’t want to transfer the money, it would be okay. All the Ghost needed was the digital token.

  If he had to pry it from the killer’s dead hand, he would.

  66

  The sicario watched the people exit the cab, none looking remotely like Arthur Booth. He checked his watch, seeing that he’d been waiting for close to two hours.

  It looked like his guess had been wrong, just as he’d been wrong about Booth’s having nothing to do with the team that had been chasing them. A miscalculation he regretted. Booth was the only connection, the only common denominator, and somehow they’d managed to find him twice. First in Tepito, then at the museum.

  Booth wasn’t working with the team; of that the sicario was sure. For one, during the attack in Tepito, after initially showing tenacious resolve, the man and woman on the team had abruptly quit the chase, letting them escape. Two, Booth had run away screaming at the museum. If he’d thought they were there to rescue him, he would have stayed, happy for them to appear. Instead, the assault had surprised him as much as anyone else.

  Even so, he was sure they were tracking him, and Arthur Booth knew the reason why. Had known they might be coming again and had said nothing. The sicario regretted not flaying the man for answers. Booth had lied to him, which was reason enough to kill him, but he also now had information that could never get out. He knew the sicario’s real name.

  The sicario watched one more cab arrive without result and decided to leave. Clearly, Booth wasn’t coming to the United States embassy for help. The sicario mentally kicked himself for allowing the man to keep his passport.

  Identification was necessary to enter the museum, and so the sicario had given Booth his passport just prior to entering. He’d kept the man’s wallet but had failed to retrieve the passport after they’d entered. Booth had no money or the ability to get any, but now he had the means to flee the country.

  Knowing Booth’s fear and lack of ability to do anything in the city—especially without any money—the sicario had figured he would show up here, spinning some story about being mugged or kidnapped and asking to return to America, but it looked like that idea had been misplaced hope. There had been a steady stream of people moving inside to the first security checkpoint, but none were Booth.

  Perhaps the team is working with the embassy. Maybe this is why he hasn’t shown. He is as afraid of them as he is of me.

  The man had to be somewhere, though, and the sicario understood his intelligence. While he might have been a blubbering mass of cowardice, he was smart. He wasn’t wandering the street looking for a handout. He was working hard to find another way to get home.

  How? How would he do that?

  The sicario stood and walked away from the embassy, flagging down an unregistered cab. He climbed in back, seeing two men in the front, both disheveled and dirty. He gave them the name of a store and settled back, thinking of the ramifications.

  If Booth were captured by the team or anyone else, the sicario had no illusions that he wouldn’t give up his real name as soon as he opened his mouth. Doing anything to keep himself out of jail for his theft of computer secrets. That would close down the sicario’s only escape route. His island of protection from Los Zetas. He now had plenty of money to live on for the rest of his life, but he couldn’t use it if the American authorities were hunting him. He wouldn’t be able to get a driver’s license, open a new bank account, or do any of the mundane things required to live in the United States.

  Beyond that, Booth had lied to him and had fled. The sicario could not let that stand. He had one thing he did well, one thing that made him what he was, and Booth had spit on that skill. For that, he would die.

  The sicario was brought out of his thoughts when he felt the cab stop. He glanced out and saw they were nowhere near his destination. The cab had parked in an alley between two warehouses. The sicario understood why.

  The man in the passenger seat said, “What happened to your arm?”

  The sicario noticed his makeshift bandage had begun to leak crimson, the wound he’d received at the museum slowly seeping through.

  “I was hurt at work. Why did you stop here?”

  The man flashed a kitchen knife with a six-inch blade. “Hand over your money. Maybe I won’t carve your other arm.”

  The sicario closed his eyes. The violence followed him everywhere. He wasn’t the fox. He was the hen. An animal that attracted death. Why did they come for him? Was it God’s plan or another unconnected event on his path in life? A sign of what was to come or just an echo, like thunder in a storm?

  He dearly wanted to know.

  When he opened his eyes again, the man in front wavered, shrinking from the glare. The driver said, “Give us your wallet. Do it now!”

  The sicario reached behind his back, an
d the man with the knife relaxed. Instead of a wallet, the sicario withdrew his pistol, placed it on the forehead of the knife wielder, and pulled the trigger, spraying the windshield with blood and brain matter.

  The explosion was huge inside the closed vehicle, the smoke and smell of burned powder filling it. The driver held up his hands, saying, “No, no. Please don’t.”

  The sicario said, “Move over. Get in the passenger seat.”

  The driver sat still in fear. “Don’t, please. Don’t kill me.”

  “Move over. Now.”

  “Why? Why why why?”

  The sicario pressed the barrel into his head and said, “Because I’m taking this car and I don’t want to drive sitting in blood. Move.”

  The driver began to cry, but he opened the door and pushed the body to the pavement. He turned around and said, “We weren’t going to hurt you. Please, I have a wife. A daughter.”

  The sicario paused, intrigued. He placed his black eyes on the man and asked, “What does that have to do with anything? Would having a wife and daughter prevent a fox from killing your chickens?”

  The driver was confused by the statement. He opened his mouth to speak, his lips sliding over his teeth, but no words came out. He looked at the sicario in fear, willing to say anything to prevent what was coming but having no idea what words would succeed. The sicario was disappointed. Another man who had no answers. He pulled the trigger, shattering teeth and severing the spinal cord. The sicario pushed him out of the seat, letting the body flop on top of the other man’s. He closed the door and backed out of the alley, the front tire rolling over an outstretched arm.

  He was unsure of his exact location, not having paid attention during the drive, and gave up trying to find the store he’d given them. Instead, he began circling the neighborhood, looking for the familiar black and yellow sign.

  He made several left turns and was growing frustrated when he saw what he wanted: a small grocery store with a placard advertising Western Union.

  He parked on the side, the passenger door pinned in by a wall to prevent some curious passerby from seeing the mess in the front seat. The store was empty, making his job infinitely easier. He turned and locked the front door, then went to the counter.

  The woman behind it had seen his actions, and when she saw his destroyed visage, she shrank back, praying under her breath.

  He said, “I’m not here to harm you. I want to withdraw a transfer from Western Union.”

  She nodded rapidly in relief and said, “I need the MTCN and your first and last name.”

  He said, “Arthur Booth, but I have no MTCN. What is that?”

  “The money transfer control number. It’s the number the person sending it should have given you so you could receive it.”

  He leaned into the counter and said, “I just want to know if a man named Arthur Booth received money. Can you check for me?”

  Trembling, she said, “I’m not allowed to do that. Please.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then said, “Is that what you really want to tell me?”

  A man outside rattled the handle of the door, then knocked. The sicario said, “Don’t turn this into violence. Check for me, please.”

  She began typing, and he went to the door. He opened it, said, “We’re closed for inventory,” then shut it in the man’s face before he could say a word.

  He returned to the counter and she said, “Yes. An Arthur Booth received four thousand dollars from a Western Union in the United States. The transaction has already been completed.”

  “Can you tell me where? What store did the transfer?”

  Her lip quivering, she said, “No. It doesn’t show that. It just shows it was completed.”

  “Who sent it?”

  “I don’t know. Usually you don’t have to give any information like that. The only person who has to show identification would be the receiver. To prove he was who he said he was.”

  She seemed to collapse in on herself, fearing what the sicario would do. He said, “He wouldn’t have to show identification even for that amount of money?”

  Seeing a lifeline, her eyes lit up, and she said, “Yes, yes. Maybe. That would be considered a suspicious transfer in the United States.”

  She began typing again, and he saw her exhale. “It’s here. The amount was flagged, and the sender had to provide his name and address.”

  She wrote down the information and handed it to him. He read it, seeing he would be going deeper into America than he had intended. The address was for someone named Peter Scarborough in Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA.

  He knew Booth was gone. Probably in the air, flying to America right this moment. The sicario had no idea where he would go or what he would do to hide.

  But this Peter Scarborough did.

  67

  “What was the heat state when you left?” said Pike. “What’s our compromise status?”

  Jennifer tried to turn her head, but Decoy held it in place, saying, “Stop moving. Look right at me and keep holding your hair back. I want you to follow this light with your eyes.”

  She did so, then said, “We’re good at the museum. They have no idea what happened. They heard some noises, but when the policeman brought me around, I claimed I’d been mugged. He asked about explosions and I said I had no idea what he was talking about. He took a statement from me, so he’s got my name, but I used our cover of Grolier Recovery Services. Made absolute sense to be there. And I had the pocket litter and identification to back it up.”

  Decoy said, “I don’t think she’s got a concussion, but we should get her checked out by someone who isn’t a witch doctor.”

  Pike said, “You’re the best we’ve got right now. Put that med-lab training to good use. Patch her up.”

  Decoy squatted down at her level and gingerly touched her scalp with an antiseptic. She gritted her teeth at the sting but said nothing, waiting on him to “accidentally” poke the wound in retaliation for her mistake.

  After dealing with the police, she’d been allowed to go. Well, more precisely, they didn’t seem to have any overarching plan, and she’d wandered off. Knowing bad news never got better with age, she’d called Pike. And told him what had happened.

  I had the Ghost and was escorting him out. Then I let him escape free and clear. By the way, he has my weapon as well.

  She didn’t use those exact words, but it had been the toughest phone call she’d ever had to make. She knew full well what the impact would be. While they had been on a high-speed chase complete with a firefight, she’d let a captured terrorist shackled with a GPS locator escape. Not only that, she had facilitated it. She knew her reputation was done. Now she was simply waiting on the fallout.

  Strangely enough, it hadn’t happened yet. The minute she’d walked in the room, everyone had taken one look at her and wanted to know if she was okay. At first she was convinced it was because she was female and they were showing a protective streak. But she knew the hotwash was coming. She’d seen them before as a bystander, brutal after-action reviews where they analyzed all mistakes to prevent future occurrences. Nobody was spared regardless of their position on the team, and that was where she would be fired.

  Pike said, “I think we’re good at the market as well. Decoy managed to get our SUV out of the area before the police showed up, and we weren’t stopped getting back to the hotel with the computer.”

  Decoy placed two butterfly bandages on her cut and said, “Amazing what a wad of cash will do for you in Mexico. Most expensive SUV I’ve ever purchased, but it was worth it. They even took out the registration history of the rental.”

  He rose and said, “She’s good to go. She’s going to look like an abused wife for a couple of weeks, but she doesn’t need stitches. The shoulder wound is worse than the head one, but that’s just a puncture from shrapnel. It’ll heal on its
own.”

  Eyes downcast, she said, “Thanks.”

  He nudged her. When she looked up he winked and said, “I see what you’re thinking. Don’t. That was a gutsy move.”

  He went back to the anteroom of the suite with the rest of the team, leaving her alone with Pike.

  Here it comes.

  Pike said, “You got any ideas at all where the Ghost was headed? Did he say anything?”

  “No. Nothing. He just begged for me to get the cuffs off. If I had done it sooner, I’d still have him. If I hadn’t waffled . . .”

  He sat down facing her. “Cut that shit out. Look, this was my mistake, not yours. I never thought they’d initiate a long-term outage before making the sale. Never figured those cuffs would be something to worry about.”

  “Pike, you don’t need to protect me. I know I screwed up. I know how much the Oversight Council thought this was a bad idea, and I proved them right.”

  He glanced at the door, making sure it was closed, then leaned in and kissed her forehead, right next to her wound.

  “You always think I’m protecting you because you don’t understand your own worth. You never have. What you did today earned the respect of every man on this team. They’re out there right now wondering what they would have done, and not all are sure they would have risked their lives to save the Ghost. They know it was the right call, but they’re wondering if they would have made it.”

  Staring vacantly at the ground, she said, “Pike, he was screaming in the dirt. I felt the cuffs vibrating. I had to do it. I thought the things were going to go off while I was working the lock. . . . I don’t know what I could have . . . ”

  He lightly punched her in the shoulder, knocking her back into the present. “Hey, you did good. Don’t dwell on it. Whatever you do, don’t let this action cloud something in the future. Keep your compass. It’s served you well in the past and will do so in the future. We’ll get him again. I told you, it was my mistake.”