Freefall

by Adam Hamdy

  Two men in black, both wearing the unmistakable masks of Pendulum, stormed into the cell. Bailey’s mind reeled as he tried to make sense of events. How could this be happening inside one of Britain’s most secure prisons? As the two men loomed over him, he suddenly thought that he must have fallen asleep, and that he was trapped inside a vivid nightmare. He tried to lash out, kicking his feet toward the two men, but his efforts yielded nothing. The smaller of the two sidestepped the futile effort and punched the top of Bailey’s skull with a gloved fist, the powerful hammer blow landing with such force that it sent Bailey reeling into darkness.

  32

  Once she’d finished giving her statement to Reeves and the two of them were happy with the faceless digital likenesses of the suspects produced by the Bureau’s compositor, Ash retreated to her office. Jordy Wiltshire couldn’t assign a protection team until morning, and Ash declined Reeves’s offer of a bed, remarking that if she wasn’t safe in Federal Plaza, she wasn’t safe anywhere. Reeves tried to stay but Ash sent him home, saying she wanted him fresh and at his best. Prevented from working the case herself, she was relying on Reeves and the team to find out who her attackers were. Reluctantly, Reeves complied and left shortly after midnight. Ash changed out of her grimy clothes into the spare outfit she kept in the office: a pair of jeans, gray tank top, and black sweater. She found a box of Ambien in her desk and took a pill, but her mind was racing and she was unable to sleep on the tiny couch parked in the corner of her cramped office. She gave up, left her office, and wandered the almost deserted building until she found herself ordering a small salad and what would hopefully be a soporific warm milk from the quiet cafeteria. Her feet were starting to ache so she took a couple of the Vicodin Dr. Mafez had prescribed, and by the time she’d finished her meal, warm relief had reached the very tips of her toes, and the cork sandals the nurse had sourced for her felt like beds of cotton candy. She staggered back to her office and collapsed on the couch, drifting off to sleep so quickly that she couldn’t even recall closing her eyes.

  The drone of a vacuum cleaner pierced the powerful fog of painkillers and sleeping pills, and Ash’s eyes rolled open only to immediately shrink at the hazy light that filled her office. It was morning, and the clock on her desk said 6:15. Ash sat up and instantly regretted the motion as needles of pain shot up her legs. She leaned over, grabbed the bottle of Vicodin from her desk, and forced down two pills, then walked gingerly to her chair, using the desk to take as much weight off her feet as possible. She slumped into the seat and started her laptop, which took a moment to come to life. When she checked her mailbox, among the dozens of unread emails, one stood out: a message from Pavel Kosinsky written in reply to the email she’d forwarded from Bailey.

  Hey Chris,

  I couldn’t ID the symbol, but the code you sent me contains dates followed by a series of three coordinates. The dates are written in reverse, but the coordinates don’t refer to long or lat, or any other form of map positioning. I’m not sure what they are. Hope this helps.

  P

  Ash wrote a quick reply of thanks and then tried phoning Bailey. Wallace had told her Bailey had sacrificed himself during the escape but hadn’t given any details, and now she wondered whether he’d been injured, arrested, or worse. When his phone went to voicemail, she emailed him Pavel’s response, with a short note saying she’d gotten proof Pendulum wasn’t working alone. Given the ease with which Pendulum had previously compromised Bureau systems, Ash knew she couldn’t risk revealing any details, but she hoped that once she was at a secure USM location she’d be able to follow up with the London detective.

  Thinking about Bailey prompted her to check for updates on Wallace. She searched Interpol and wasn’t surprised to learn that he’d escaped from police custody and was still on the run. If he did make it to New York, he would find it almost impossible to contact her in protective custody, so she sent him an email:

  Call Deon Reeves. Bureau. You can trust him.

  “Agent Ash?”

  She hit send and looked up to see two men standing in the doorway. The shorter of the pair, in a light gray suit, had pale, almost translucent skin and sported a few days of neatly clipped stubble on his lean face. A taller black man stood behind him in a dark blue suit, his height concealing the burden of a few extra pounds, his moon face stern and unsmiling beneath a shaved head.

  “I’m Lou Egan, and this is Taye Gatlin,” the gray-suited man said. “We’re US Marshals.” He flashed his ID. “Jordy Wiltshire asked us to take care of you.”

  Ash pulled herself to her feet.

  “You want me to carry anything?” Egan asked.

  Ash shrugged. “I’m all there is.”

  “We’ll get you some clothes and anything else you need,” Gatlin said.

  “If you’re set . . .” Egan said.

  Ash glanced around her office, wondering when she’d be able to return. Her eyes settled on the photograph of her with her mother. Suppressing an unbidden, irrational fear that she would never come back, she shut down her computer and followed her two guardians out of the room.

  Ash sat in the back of the Buick Regal watching the city pass as they headed north. Egan was driving and Gatlin sat next to him.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “To RV with your protection detail,” Egan replied, looking in the rearview mirror.

  “I thought you were my detail,” Ash probed.

  Egan shook his head. “We’re just transit,” he replied. “The service altered its protocols following the Pendulum case. We lost two marshals; it forced the brass to review how we do things.”

  “I knew them,” Ash told him. “Perez and Hill. They were good men.”

  “They were,” Egan agreed. “We believe Pendulum was able to discover the location of the safe house by hacking USM servers, so we no longer keep any electronic records of anyone in protection. And transit and protection are handled by two separate details, to reduce the number of people who know a subject’s location.”

  They drove for another thirty minutes, until they reached the intersection of 147th Street and Seventh Avenue. Egan pulled up behind a black Cadillac ATS parked opposite a supermarket at the foot of a high rise. As the Buick rolled to a halt, two men emerged from the Cadillac: a large, lumbering white man and a short Latino guy. Ash immediately noticed that neither man seemed comfortable in his suit.

  “This is the protection detail,” Egan told her.

  “Do you know them?” she asked.

  Egan shook his head. “You?” he asked Gatlin.

  “No. Never seen them before,” Gatlin responded.

  “I’d like you to ask for ID,” Ash said firmly.

  “Agent Ash,” Egan began, but he caught her serious expression and relented. “OK.”

  He climbed out of the car and strolled over to the two men. Ash saw him say something to the shorter of the two, and was horrified when the man reached inside his jacket and produced—

  “Gun!” Ash yelled, as two rounds tore through Egan’s chest. Gatlin drew his weapon, but the large Caucasian man produced a submachine gun and sprayed the Buick with bullets. Ash ducked into the footwell as Gatlin’s body shuddered and jerked with the force of the impacts. Ash didn’t stay down long. She reached for the door handle and rolled on to the asphalt, narrowly avoiding a brown van that had screeched to a halt. She looked up to see the driver staring at the Latino and the Caucasian in dismay; he hadn’t even registered her presence. A loud crack sounded behind her and a bullet shattered the van’s windshield. Ash turned to see the short Latino man leveling his pistol at her from the other side of the Buick.

  “Don’t move!” he commanded, and the moment he spoke Ash recognized his voice from her apartment: he was the man with the pistol, the shooter. Her mind raced with questions, but she ignored them and started running.

  The snap of gunfire filled her ears and she heard the thump of bullets hitting the van’s chassis as she sprinted round it and ran al
ong the far side. She could feel her feet protesting, but was grateful that the worst of the agony was muted by the numbing effects of the Vicodin. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw the Caucasian had stepped into the street and was level with her, his submachine gun pointed in her direction. She ran behind the van as the large man opened fire, and a hail of bullets hit a white Honda that had stopped on the other side of the intersection. The driver bucked as the bullets pierced his body, killing him instantly. Ash noticed a silver BMW on the corner of 147th Street, its driver struggling to reverse his car against the tide of traffic. She skirted the rear of the brown van and poked her head round the corner, looking north to see the Latino man changing his clip as he stalked toward her.

  Ash knew the large Caucasian would be coming up the other side of the van, giving her little choice. She broke cover, and the Latino man who’d led the invasion of her apartment immediately opened fire. She leaped over the hood of the silver BMW, bullets slicing the air around her, then wrenched the passenger door open and tumbled into the car.

  No time for explanations. She yelled at the startled driver: “Go! Drive!”

  The driver hit the gas and the car lurched forward and picked up speed. Bullets peppered the windshield as the BMW sped alongside the brown van toward the Latino gunman, who leaped out of its path.

  A spray of machine-gun fire shattered the rear window, and the driver cried out but didn’t slow down as the two assailants and the scene of their murderous violence receded. Ash checked herself for injuries but found none. The car hurtled north and she wondered what to do next. Despite their new security protocols, someone had compromised the US Marshals’ office, suggesting that her assailants were at least as resourceful and determined as Pendulum. Bitter experience had taught her that nowhere was safe, and that there was only one person she could trust. Until she could figure out a way to reconnect with Wallace, Ash knew she’d have to rely on herself if she was to stay alive long enough to find out who was behind all this and why they wanted her dead.

  33

  Bailey’s heart raced, and fear coursed through him as a screeching wail forced him back to consciousness. He tried to cover his ears but his wrists were bound, and when he opened his eyes, they saw nothing but burning white light, so he quickly shut them. The wail was joined by the discordant sound of a guitar being shredded and 160 beats per minute of violent drumming. Bailey finally recognized the savage noise as thrash metal, which assaulted his ears at a volume loud enough to make them throb. He became aware of a dull ache where his assailant had punched him, and an uncomfortable tightness around his ankles, where the bonds that restrained his legs bit into his bare skin. Another bond anchored his torso and his hands were bound above his head. He’d been stripped to his underwear and was lying on a bed or stretcher in a small cell. The music, the restraints, the removal of his clothes were all hallmarks of the kind of psy-ops used by intelligence agencies.

  He yelled above the din. “Hello!”

  The music suddenly died and the room went black. Bailey opened his eyes but couldn’t see anything other than deep, speckled darkness. Then suddenly the outline of a Pendulum mask above him.

  “Where’s John Wallace?” the masked man demanded, his voice low.

  “I don’t know,” Bailey said.

  He was instantly rewarded with a powerful fist driven into his groin. Pain engulfed his body, making him convulse as the restraints that bound his hands above his head prevented him from curling into a ball. Blinding light forced his eyes shut and thrash metal filled his ears.

  “Please,” he moaned, but there was no response, and he lay prone and vulnerable, willing away the pain emanating from his groin.

  Suddenly the light and music died away, replaced by still darkness. He opened his eyes and tried to look around, but saw nothing.

  “Please,” he said again, trying to sound composed. “I don’t know where he is.”

  Light illuminated the space, and once his eyes had adjusted, Bailey recognized the source: his mobile phone.

  “Tell me about the code,” the man in the Pendulum mask growled. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s nothing to do with Wallace,” Bailey replied, his voice pathetic and fearful.

  “Don’t tell me what it isn’t,” his assailant yelled, punching him in the gut. “Tell me what it is!”

  “I don’t know,” Bailey cried.

  His interrogator drove an elbow into his solar plexus. The blinding lights and deafening music returned, assaulting his senses. Bailey tried to hold on to something, anything that would keep him connected with the real world, one without the torment of pain. He focused on the question that had arisen when he’d seen his phone. How had it got here? It had been taken from him in the police station at Heathrow. How had this man infiltrated Belmarsh Prison and obtained his phone? There was only one possible answer.

  “Mayfield!” Bailey yelled, recalling the name Bomber Jacket had used at the station. “Sam Mayfield!”

  The lights went out and the room fell silent.

  “Mayfield?” Bailey tried, his voice booming off the walls. “I want to help.”

  The Pendulum mask drew close. “There’s no Mayfield here. And you will help. I’ll make sure of that.”

  Bailey sensed rapid movement and felt a heavy fist hit his solar plexus again, unleashing agony that threatened to overwhelm him.

  He cried out. “Please! Please, I want to help!”

  But there was no response, and as tears of pain swept down his temples, the searing light and punishing music returned. He willed himself to be strong and tried to imagine wreaking revenge on his tormentor, but as the immediate wave of pain subsided it was replaced by despair. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to resist, and once he’d given this man what he wanted, Bailey had little doubt his life would be forfeit.

  The city gleamed in the April sunshine, growing larger as the Gulfstream descended. The pilot informed Wallace that they were headed for Teterboro Airport, a small airfield in New Jersey that almost exclusively served private jets.

  Wallace and Salamander had been surprised by each other’s resourcefulness. The previous day, Wallace had asked the Scarred Man to take him to a gold broker on St. James’s Street, where he had a safety deposit box containing some of the proceeds from the sale of his flat. After the Pendulum experience, and with Ash’s contagious paranoia infecting his mind, Wallace had taken precautions to ensure that if he was ever threatened, he could easily access the things needed to make a swift escape. He had taken £200,000 out of the safety deposit box, most in sterling, some in dollars, along with the William Porter passport that Danny had delivered to the miserable safe house off the Old Kent Road over a year ago.

  Before he’d handed over the money, Wallace had demanded to know how Salamander planned to get him out of the country.

  “Private jet,” Salamander had explained. “We use them to move stuff around. People ask less questions if they think you’re rich. You’ll be flying out of RAF Northolt. It’s the same airport the Queen uses,” he’d added with a wry smile.

  The Scarred Man had deposited Wallace at a cheap hotel near Heathrow, where he’d spent a sleepless night poring over his experiences in Afghanistan, trying to rid his mind of the memory of Vosuruk bleeding to death in the gloomy stairwell. As always, his thoughts had turned to Connie and hers was the last face he’d seen before he’d finally drifted off.

  The Scarred Man had returned in the early hours, with Salamander. As they’d traveled the deserted West London streets, Salamander had told Wallace what Danny had found out about Bailey.

  “He’s in Belmarsh,” he revealed. “But don’t you worry about it. We’ll make sure he’s got a good brief. They can’t hold him. They’re just trying it on.”

  Wallace felt a rush of guilt but didn’t press the matter. There was nothing he could do to help Bailey, and he only risked being caught if he stayed in the UK. He might not be safe on the other side of the Atlantic, but he’d
rather take his chances with Ash.

  When they arrived at RAF Northolt, Salamander produced a duffle bag from the boot.

  “Creature comforts, courtesy of ya friendly travel agent.” He handed it to Wallace, who opened it and found clothes and toiletries inside. Salamander gave him a mobile phone. “There’s one number programmed in the memory. Call it if ya get in trouble. Charger’s in the bag.”

  “Thanks,” Wallace said gratefully.

  Salamander and the Scarred Man stayed with Wallace as he was welcomed by the GlobalJet flight attendant, who steered him through the immigration process in the Northolt Jet Center, a tiny terminal building located within the RAF base. Wallace appreciated the effectiveness of the Oakwood Medical Systems front. Salamander’s new company regularly exported high-value medical equipment, which gave him the ability to move other things when he needed to.

  The Porter passport had held up, and Wallace said his thanks and farewell to Salamander then followed the flight attendant out to the Gulfstream G650 which had been chartered to take him to New York. The pilot and co-pilot gave him a courteous welcome before continuing their pre-flight checks, and Wallace settled into one of the comfortable leather seats. He refused the flight attendant’s offer of a drink and drifted off to sleep before the aircraft started its taxi. The flight attendant woke him shortly before the pilot announced their descent into Teterboro Airport, and he looked out to see New York City stretched out beneath them.

  Once they’d landed, Wallace thanked the flight attendant and pilots and went through the quickest, most pleasant immigration check he’d ever experienced. Outside the small airport operations building, he caught a cab and asked to be taken to a comfortable hotel. The driver, a bearded Ukrainian who was having a tough time in America, spoke of his troubles as he drove them to the Teaneck Marriott, about fifteen minutes from the airport. The gray glass and steel structure was visible from the expressway and loomed high over the surrounding buildings. It was exactly what Wallace had been looking for, the sort of place where he’d be anonymous and forgettable. He paid the driver, tipping him well for his hotel recommendation.