by Declan Finn
“Now who’s doing gymnastics?” Catherine asked.
“Not gymnastics,” he replied, picking up his Sabre from the floor. “Later.”
* * * *
Once Charlie and Delta teams had been cut down to two men, Michael DeValera knew it was time to leave. He grabbed the JanSport backpack with the nuclear weapon, stuffed a grenade into each pocket, and made for the door. He grabbed three, inch-thick mattresses in each hand and laid them out on the floor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a disposable lighter that had “I love New York” written down the side. He used it to ignite the bottom width of each mattress. He extinguished the lighter, grabbed the other ends of the mattresses, and dragged them behind him, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. In another minute, the fire sprinklers would spray gasoline over the flames, covering all traces of who had lodged there.
DeValera dropped the cushions on the floor in front of the doorway. He stepped out and turned back, closing the door behind him. He paused, thought better of it as he opened the door, letting the flames lick the fresh air. He smiled, considering his work, turned around to face two assault rifles pointed at his chest.
“We want the nuke, DeValera,” Williams told him. “Or is it Mister Collins?”
“Either will do,” he stated. He looked at the other figure in black. It must’ve been STRONGBOW. “But, I must say, if you shoot me with one of those, the bullet would go right through me and might detonate the weapon. After all, good Russian design is so hard to come by.”
“Not if we blow your head off,” Catherine said, leveling her weapon.
DeValera raised his hands. “Touchy, touchy. Before you consider that course of action, may I draw your attention to the pin-less grenade in my left hand.” The fire burned behind him, and he wondered how much time he had before the first sprinkler went off. “Now I am not unreasonable,” he said. “We are pressed for time and seriously cannot dawdle. So I’ll make you a deal.” He slipped the empty hand through the remaining backpack strap. “I’ll give you the nuke.” He reached around his left arm and slid that strap off and over the grenade. “Catch!” he exclaimed as he whirled around, tossing the backpack into the makeshift incinerator.
Michael stepped out of the way of the door as Catherine leapt past him. She cleared the flaming beds by inches, because the mattresses were so fortuitously thin. The assassin landed on both feet, glancing around the brightly lit room looking for the backpack. She spotted its black covering quickly against the white tiles of the floor.
DeValera backed away from Wayne, who looked for an opening to blow him away.
“And now for you,” Michael told him, reaching into his other pocket. He pulled out the other grenade and pulled the pin out with his teeth. He spit the pin onto the floor. “You know I won’t throw this at you, because your bullets are faster than the fifteen-second timer.” He smiled, considering his situation. “This is ironic once you think about it, really. I was under orders not to shoot you back at the FBI building, and here you are, ready to shoot me.”
Wayne cocked the weapon…not that it needed cocking, but he found it helped to make people way more talkative. “You naughty lad,” he noted, making it sound like he was about to spank DeValera with a 9mm paddle—something about being in Ireland had this effect on him.
He grinned aggravatingly. “Like I said, I can’t throw it at you. But her…” DeValera chucked the grenade after Catherine. “Ta-ta.”
DeValera bolted down the hallway, grenade held high as a flag of victory. The grenade he threw landed where Catherine had been, only now she was at the other end of the trail of fire. The pineapple-shaped grenade turned as it rolled, swerving into a path of flame. It detonated prematurely: the concussion knocking Catherine off her feet and blasting Williams back against the wall. He shook his head to clear his skull, and then dropped the gun—it would only be excess weight for the leap he planned. He braced himself, making sure his sneakers had solid traction, sprinted through the doorway, leaping over the flaming beds bunched together by the concussion.
Wayne landed in the crater the grenade created. Catherine was easy to spot; she was a black blur against the red, and she held the backpack strap in her grasp. Williams ran to her side amid the flames. He pried the backpack out of her hands and slipped it onto his shoulders.
A hiss drew his attention. A fire sprinkler had finally opened at the other end of the room, pouring down on fireless floor. The liquid flowed across the crevices in the tiles toward the blaze.
So much for fire safety, Wayne thought, securing the JanSport bag.
The clear liquid touched the fire. It ignited, sending flame into the air as it trailed back toward the original point of pooling. The fire crawled up the spray and into the fire sprinkler. It exploded, sending parts of the ceiling down. Williams dropped over Catherine’s prone body, picking a bad time to play knight in shining armor, considering that if debris had landed on him, the bomb on his back might’ve taken both of them out anyway.
Wayne scooped Catherine up in two arms, one under her knees, the other supporting her back. Her head fell against his shoulder. He would’ve liked to carry her over his shoulder like firemen sensibly did, but he had enough on his back to worry about.
He moved forward as another sprinkler opened up. He marched straight toward the flaming beds in his path. With a sweep of his legs, he removed what he thought would be his only obstacle. Instead, a draft had blown the door shut behind him.
The sprinkler exploded like the last one, only quicker and closer. Wayne lifted his leg, then sent it into the door, nearly kicking it off its hinges. He strode out into the hall. He decided to leave the gun; Maureen would be lucky enough to get the Uzi back.
Williams ran through the halls of the guard post unsure of what booby traps he would find. Given what DeValera had done to the sprinkler system, he didn’t want to think too hard on what other surprises were left for him, so he took the path he had already traveled, back to the stockroom. The crates were already halfway out, thanks to the improvised efforts of DeValera’s dead men. He circled around to the front, making it in time to hear DeValera’s rented car smash through the gate.
Wayne carried her out the ruined gates and down the hill. He stopped at the road’s margin, checked the lack of traffic, and sprinted across the street. He circled around the trees and found Catherine’s black rental Chrysler right where she’d left it. He went to the driver side door, hooked the tip of his foot under the door handle and pulled the door halfway open, turning on the cabin light. He stepped back and nudged it the rest of the way with the side of his foot. With his heel, he hit the power unlock button.
Williams walked around to the other side, opened the door, and loaded Catherine inside. He swung her legs over so he could sit half-on half-off the large cushioned seat. He reached over to the driver side dashboard and turned off the cabin light. Wayne slowly rolled the ski mask back from her face and put it on the dashboard. He gingerly felt along the back and sides of her skull with his fingertips. It didn’t feel like anything was damaged.
Wayne reached into his combat belt and pulled out the little pencil torch. He slowly raised the blue flame to a centimeter in height. He raised the thin blue line halfway between her closed eyes and his marble blues. With his right hand, he held onto her forehead, peeling back an eyelid with his thumb. The deep amber iris constricted in the presence of light. He readjusted his grip and checked the other one, which constricted at the same rate of speed. Wayne nodded, confident there was no concussion. He shut down the torch and tucked it away.
Catherine stirred. Her right hand moved up as though she were about to start dancing a waltz. He gently took her hand before it wandered all over, and then it tensed, her shortened thumbnail jabbing into the muscle between his thumb and index finger. Pain lanced through his arm as her eyes flashed open. Her left arm was ready to deliver an uppercut when she recognized Wayne. She quickly let go.
He grabbed his hand, massaging away the throbbi
ng pain. “You must be tough to wake up in the morning. What did your parents do when you slept late, come in with body armor?”
She smiled sheepishly. “Sorry about that; it’s a reflex after the first few times you wake up with a gun in your face.” She rubbed the back of her head. “What happened?”
“It appears we’re playing tag team. You save my life, I save yours.”
“What?”
“Our friend DeValera has a fetish for making things complicated. He tossed in a grenade after you dove for the backpack.” He watched her hand put pressure up against what must’ve been a heck of a headache. Her eyes closed as she soothed away the pain. “Don’t worry, there’s no concussion, I checked.”
Her eyes opened and looked at him. “You’re a medic, too? I don’t remember that from your file.”
He gave a lopsided grin. “It’s not in my file, but it should be under my family history. You read about my older brother, Frank?”
Catherine squeezed her lids shut as she recalled his sibling’s occupation. “He’s an army chaplain, isn’t he? He went to the seminary out of medical school, I think.”
“Frank came out of Quinippiac University as a Physician Assistant, your basic marine of the medical profession.” He shrugged. “There was many a night I quizzed him with the textbook. I picked up more than my fair share of his education.” He gripped her shoulder. “You’ll have a stinging migraine, but you’ll live.”
Wayne stood up and gently closed the door behind him. Catherine watched him walk around to the other side of the car and slide into the driver seat. He closed the door behind him, turned. “Keys?”
“Ashtray.”
He smiled. “Original.” He popped open the filled ashtray. He glanced at the assassin. “Chain smoker?”
“No, I like breathing. I had to burn an entire pack of cigarettes to get it that full.”
“Nice.” He dug into the ashes with his finger. He came up with a dirty silver key and stuck it into the ignition. “I can’t remember the last time I drove one of these.”
“A Chrysler?”
“No,” he said, turning the key, “a car. Down in the Naw’lens branch of the Secret Service, I let my boss drive me. I couldn’t stand driving those streets. Besides, it was fun walking around.” He flipped on the headlights. “Good scenery…. Feel like getting something to eat?” he asked as he slowly pulled the car onto the road.
“Sure. But you think we could go for a quick stop at my hotel? I think no respectable eating establishment would let us in smelling like smoke.”
He laughed. “You have a point there. Where’s your hotel? The Shelbourne, or something equally close to the Doyle?”
“I’m at the Doyle. Fifth floor…well, third now.”
“No kidding? I’m on the second floor; just checked in this morning. We must have missed each other by a few minutes.”
Catherine stared at him. “If I had known that a few hours ago, I’d have probably killed you thinking that you were on to me. I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“I don’t like the idea of coincidence, but I think that they happen—more often than a novelist would allow, but they do happen. I thought it was one of the cheaper hotels outside of a bed and breakfast—and those are too small, people tend to look at your face too closely. Why did you check in there?”
She shrugged and casually replied, “Someone tried to kill me in Virginia. He had a receipt for the Doyle Hotel in his wallet. Are you sure you’re driving on the right side of the road?”
“I can tell my left from my right.”
“I should’ve said ‘the correct’ side.”
Wayne bit the inside of his lip. “That’s a good question. Eh, we’ll find out the next time we see a car.” He glanced at the clock: 11:30. He shook his head and chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“All that in a half an hour. I’d forgotten what it’s like to nearly get killed a dozen times, only to find out that it’s been five minutes since a firefight started.”
“When was the last time you were shot at?”
His face turned stony, and he replied, in a flat voice, “Let’s say it’s been awhile.”
“How did you—?”
“How about,” he interrupted, “you try resting, huh? We have an hour-long drive ahead of us, and we should have some conversation left for dinner… Or whatever you call a meal at this time of night.”
“Breakfast?”
* * * *
Blaine Lansing didn’t know which was worse: his previous search for Wayne Williams, or his current search for Michael DeValera. Williams had been gracious enough to call back later and feed him details on what DeValera looked like, but nothing was ever easy anymore, it seemed.
“Come on, damn you,” he whispered. “Talk to me.”
Blaine, at this point, had been running on an endless stream of coffee and a family-sized bag of Doritos for the previous eighteen hours. Had this not been so, he would have realized that, if the computer had started talking to him, his first course of action should have been to run to the nearest exorcist. But, in his current state, his first reaction would— have been to hold a conversation with the computer, attributing it to Artificial Intelligence, isn’t technology grand? Although, he could have qualified for an AI designation himself by now.
Blaine was just about to fall asleep when he cracked through a firewall. His eyes flew open as they scanned a resume whose ramifications were just too horrible to imagine.
Then two bullets tore through his backrest, sending him into a merciful blackness.
He needed the rest.
Chapter 17
Friday, November 10th
Wayne was still dressed in a black turtleneck and a matching black sweater when he walked into the lobby of the Doyle Hotel, although Catherine had turned her clothes inside out in the restroom of a gas station they had passed on the way; she walked in with a dark green turtleneck and blue jeans, carrying her equally reversible canvas bag, which was now as black as her hair. They had decided they would meet back there in a half-hour and find out if the hotel restaurant was actually open at one in the morning. He took the stairs while she took the elevator.
Catherine wondered about this strange man. He wasn’t a new phenomenon, she had met another a long time ago. But, then again, only one other person was even like him.
The elevator doors opened on three. Catherine stepped out into the hall and walked straight to her room. The “Do Not Disturb” sign was right where she had left it, but she checked both ends of the hallway before she crouched down to the bottom of the door. The clear scotch tape she had left pressed against the door and the frame was broken. Not only that, light passed underneath the door. Someone had either been inside and left the lights on, or was still there.
The assassin stood, pulling her gun from her bag. She dropped the bag at her side and crouched low next to the door. With her right hand, she slid the key into the lock, then swiftly pulled it out and pushed the door handle down with the side of her hand. She turned her hand, angling it to keep the handle down with the friction and push the door open. It popped open about a foot. She spun into the doorway, kicking it all the way open, then dropping to one knee, gun aimed at the man in the chair that had been maneuvered to purposely face the door.
“I’m glad I taught you to look at who you were shooting,” he said in a Russian accent, grinning. He always liked those silly accents, even when he sounded like Boris Badinov.
Catherine found herself smiling. “As am I, sir.” Catherine found she could always relax around her trainer. It was something about him that exuded calm. His flashing blue-green eyes were easy to make out in the well-lit room. Every light was on.
“I figured the extra lighting would make sure you knew someone was in here,” he told her as she picked up her bag, smoothly putting the Glock away. “If my voice came from a dark corner of the room, I probably wouldn’t have a head by now.”
“You would be right, sir,
” Catherine lightly said as she strolled in, closing the door behind her. He had aged well. His face was youthful and charming, though his hair belied his true age as being in the mid-fifties, an intermingling of gold and silver, with just a touch of iron gray at the fringes.
“You must stay away from little things like explosions, STRONGBOW. They tend to draw attention,” he stated. Catherine threw off the wig. She hadn’t changed over the years, not even by an ounce. She reminded him so much of his wife at that indeterminable age: vibrant and willful with a killer right cross.
“Few people would’ve noticed,” she said. “I didn’t expect them to send you after me. What’s happened?”
“After the two bodies you left behind in Langley, they panicked. Why did you turn your cell phone off?”
“They don’t allow them on the plane, and I’m not going to talk on a phone while I’m tracking someone.”
He nodded. “After they couldn’t contact you, Grant sent me. How is your mission progressing?”
“We’ve already taken possession of one device. It’s in the trunk of a black rental Chrysler outside.”
He grinned even broader, with white teeth shining in the lights. That was the way he’d taught her to be: quick and efficient. “Good. Anything else on the next weapon, or who may be behind it?”
She shook her head. “Not as yet.”
“Good…Good,” he said, sensing something wrong. What had she said? “We’ve already taken possession”?