by Jack Mars
Agent Nolan shook his head as if in disbelief. “I don’t have them on me. I’m undercover.” He stuck his head out in the hall and looked left and right. “Girls, please. We might have only seconds before someone comes for you.”
There must be something, Maya thought frantically. There had to be a quick way to prove this man’s legitimacy. “You know Watson?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you friends?”
The man huffed impatiently. “Yes.”
“Where was he injured?” Maya asked quickly.
“What?”
“Watson’s injury,” she demanded. “Where was it?”
“It was… uh, his left arm,” said Nolan. “Now can we please go?”
His wrong answer jolted Sara into action. The younger girl bounced from her position on the bed with a lurch and reached for the panic button on the twin bed beside hers. Nolan caught the movement and acted instantly. He shoved Maya out of his way, hard, and she crashed into the wall, pain shooting through her shoulder. The miniature stun-gun fell from her grip and skittered under the bed.
Nolan grabbed Sara by the wrists before her hands could close around the button. He hauled her off the bed, even as she screamed, and he dropped her unceremoniously to the floor.
“Like it or not,” he growled as he put one black boot on Sara’s back, “you’re coming with me.” His right hand snaked inside the leather jacket.
Gun, Maya’s mind screeched at her. He had a gun, and she wasn’t going to wait for him to show it. She ignored the pain in her shoulder and jumped onto him, wrapping both arms around his neck and pulling with all her weight.
He let out a choking sound and spun twice with Maya on his back. His strong hands reached up for her, grabbing her biceps in a vice-like grip, and the next thing she knew she was toppling forward, thrown over his shoulders, and landing in a painful heap in the narrow space between the two beds.
When she looked up again, “Agent Nolan” had a sleek black pistol in his fist. It wasn’t pointed at either of them, but the mere sight of it sent a chill of terror down Maya’s spine. “I’m not going to tell you again,” he said with a sneer. “You’re coming with me. Now.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Reid burst out through the broken door of the three-story building and into the moonlit courtyard of the compound, looking left and right with his Glock trained forward, listening for the sound of automatic gunfire.
There was no one in sight. Then another jarring burst from an AR-15 broke the silence. He hurried in its direction, towards one of the smaller outlying structures beyond the main building. The door was open and whatever was beyond it dark.
Reid rushed through the entrance and very nearly ran into a man all in black with his back turned. The mercenary spun at the noise, bringing the AR-15 around with him towards Reid.
His reflexes kicked in and he ducked before the gun was pointed at his forehead. With one arm, Reid swiped the barrel to the side while the other reached for the stock. In one clean jerk, he snapped the rifle from the mercenary’s hands.
Fitzpatrick took a step back and flashed his lopsided smirk. “Well,” he said. “Looks like you got some fight in you, huh?”
“You don’t point that thing at me,” Reid said, his voice low and dangerous. “Ever.”
“Relax, I didn’t know it was you.” Fitzpatrick held out his hand, wrapped in a black leather glove. “But I’m gonna be needing that back now.”
Reid looked past the mercenary as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The small building appeared to be living quarters for several men, a far cry from the opulent bedroom in which he had found bin Saddam.
On the floor were the shadowy outlines of two bodies, but as far as Reid could tell, only one gun lying between them. One of the insurgents had been unarmed, though both were very much dead.
“What is this?” Reid demanded. “Your orders were to incapacitate and detain—”
“They shot first,” Fitzpatrick insisted. “I was defending myself.”
“They didn’t,” Reid argued. “I heard the shots. Only your guns went off.”
Fitzpatrick stared him down for a moment. “Maybe. Maybe not. I heard you over the radio; you got the boss man, and neither of these dead shitheads are the old guy, so who cares?” Fitzpatrick held out his hand again. “My gun. I’m not gonna ask again.”
Reid shook his head. He had no love lost for the dead terrorists of the Brotherhood; in fact, he himself had taken out more radicals than he cared to admit. But he did so in defense of his own life or others, not indiscriminately. Fitzpatrick’s cavalier attitude and direct disobeying of orders made him furious.
“Where are your men?” he demanded.
“We split up to cover more ground,” Fitzpatrick said indignantly.
“That wasn’t the plan. We’re lucky we found bin Saddam before you did—”
“You know,” Fitzpatrick said loudly, cutting him off, “a soldier’s rifle is like a part of him. Not that you’d know anything about that, coming from whatever conference room you crawled out of. But it’s important. And if you don’t hand me that rifle right now, I’m gonna start taking parts off of you.”
“Try,” Reid challenged. His hands tightened around the AR-15, ready to use it if he had to.
A single pistol shot rang out from elsewhere, distracting them both. Reid hurried out of the building, still holding Fitzpatrick’s rifle. Where did the shot come from? He couldn’t tell.
He didn’t have to wonder for long. Another pistol shot thundered, and at the same time Reid caught the muzzle flash through the window of a squat, boxy building twenty yards to his right. He sprinted towards it.
“Hey!” Fitzpatrick shouted angrily behind him. “Where do you think you’re goin’?”
Reid ignored him and shouldered open the door. The scene before him was as immediately apparent as it was alarming. Two other members of the Division looked up at him in surprise; one of them had an AR-15 cradled in his arms, but the other had a pistol out, pointed at the back of a kneeling man’s head.
The Iraqi on his knees had both hands bound behind him with a zip cord. Two other members of the Brotherhood were on the floor, shot dead, with their hands bound as well.
Reid’s gaze swept the room and caught all of it in a second as anger boiled up from within him. Terrorist or not, the Division was executing unarmed men whose hands were tied.
He dropped Fitzpatrick’s rifle and strode quickly over to the man with the pistol. Before the mercenary could react or say anything, Reid’s fist shot out and cracked a jarring blow across his chin. His other hand grabbed the man’s pistol and twisted it out of his grip as the mercenary fell.
His Glock was out in an instant, one gun pointed at the merc with the AR-15 and the other trained downward on the executioner.
“Drop the gun,” he warned, his gaze flitting between the two.
“How ‘bout you drop those guns, Agent Zero?” Fitzpatrick said as he filled the door frame, a black Sig Sauer in both hands and leveled at Reid. “And go ahead and kick that rifle on over to me, while you’re at it.”
Reid didn’t move. “I told you not to point that thing at me,” he growled.
Fitzpatrick sucked a hissing breath through his teeth. “You did. But looks to me like you’re outnumbered. And you clocked one of my guys, which I just can’t abide—”
“Your guy was executing bound men.”
“See,” Fitzpatrick chuckled, “there you go again, defending these animals like they’re real people or somethin’.” He shook his head. “They told us you were some kind of cowboy, but this is a surprise.”
Fitzpatrick took a slow step into the room. Reid kept the guns trained on the other two men; if he moved on Fitzpatrick, one of them would draw on him, he was certain of it. It was three against one and as far as Reid knew, Maria and Strickland were still clearing the third floor of the main building. They would hear the shots, but by then Reid would likely be dead.
<
br /> “No one else needs to die here today,” he said to Fitzpatrick, though it was directed at all three of them. “Let’s all put them down.”
The Division’s leader smirked with one half of his mouth. “Sure thing, Agent Zero. Why don’t you go ahead and show us how it’s done? Lead by example?”
Reid gritted his teeth. He didn’t see any other way around it. He slowly lowered the barrels of the two pistols, keeping his grip tight on each. As he did, the merc with the AR-15 pulled his aim from Reid. Finally, after what seemed like an excruciatingly long moment, Fitzpatrick holstered the Sig Sauer.
But he didn’t secure the clasp, Reid noted.
“Now go ahead and give my boy back his gun,” Fitzpatrick prompted.
Reid’s chest tightened. He flipped the pistol around in his hand and held it out the mercenary he had struck in the jaw. The man rose to his feet, took it, and slid it back into its nylon home.
Finally Reid holstered his own Glock. “No one else needs to die here today,” he repeated. “Not even him.” He motioned towards the Iraqi on his knees, who was watching the scene with an odd fascination.
Fitzpatrick chuckled heartily. “I’d be inclined to agree with you, Agent Zero.” He clapped Reid on the shoulder in a gesture that might have been friendly if it wasn’t hard enough to bruise. “But I think I told you what would happen if you didn’t give me my rifle back.”
Reid heard the telltale shink of a knife leaving a sheath behind him. He instantly twisted at the hips, turning his body ninety degrees as a flash of silver rushed through the air towards him. The merc he had socked in the jaw brought the knife down overhand, aimed at Reid’s clavicle, though with the sudden twist the sharp tip sunk into the tac vest.
Reid grabbed the hand holding the knife and gave it a brisk turn. The wrist snapped easily and the man yelped. But there were three of them, and Reid needed to stay cognizant. He threw his leg back in a mule-kick and connected with Fitzpatrick, enough to send him reeling back. The third merc’s AR-15 barrel was already up. Reid dropped into a crouch, just short of falling to his knees. He snapped up the knife that would have killed him and propelled himself forward, driving his entire body weight into the mercenary’s hips. The man grunted as they both fell in a tangle of limbs and deadly equipment.
Reid smashed him once in the face with an elbow, bloodying the man’s nose, and shoved the AR-15 away across the floor. Then he rolled and came up to his feet with the knife, turning to face Fitzpatrick—
And found himself staring down the barrel of the Sig Sauer.
“Well, I gotta say, that was just impressive as hell.” Fitzpatrick flashed his lopsided smirk. “But there’s an old saying about a knife in a gunfight.”
“Wait,” Reid insisted. He dropped the knife and it clattered to the floor. “I’m unarmed.” But even as he said it, he realized grimly that the terrorists had been unarmed too, yet not spared by the Division.
“It’s gonna be a real shame,” Fitzpatrick drawled slowly, “explaining to your little girls how you got tagged on a raid. But then again—we might not have to.”
Heat rose in Reid’s face. “What did you just say?” he asked, his voice quiet.
“Just sayin’, things happen all the time. Bad things to good people. Even kids.”
He knows about my daughters? Panic gripped his chest. This was a setup, and not just for him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I’m not going to tell you again,” said the fake-agent Nolan, a sneer on his face as he held aloft a black pistol. “You’re coming with me. Now.”
Maya, trapped with nowhere to go in the narrow space between the beds of the hotel room in Engelberg, put her hands up and slowly rose to her feet. “Okay,” she told him, keeping her voice as even as possible. “I’ll come with you. I won’t give you any trouble. But Sara stays.”
Nolan cocked his head to one side, amused. “Does it look like you’re in much of a position to negotiate?” He pointed the pistol directly at her, and her breath caught in her throat. “If only one of you is coming, it’s because the other is de—”
There was a sickening crack and Nolan jolted forward, collapsing face-down onto the bed as splinters of wood showered down around him.
Sara, wide-eyed and breathless, stood behind their assailant, holding a jagged half of log from the inert fireplace. The other half was on the floor, broken over Nolan’s head.
“You okay?” Maya asked quickly.
“Yeah,” Sara said softly. “You?”
“Yeah. Good job.” Maya knelt beside the man. He was unconscious, but might not be for long. She quickly relieved him of both the black pistol and a second gun, a silver revolver he had tucked in his pants. She passed both to Sara. “Put these on the dresser over there. Be careful.” Then she rifled through his pockets. He had a cell phone, but no wallet, no identification. In his back pocket was a folding black spine-lock knife.
While Maya disarmed the man, Sara squeezed the small black panic fob. She listened intently, hoping to hear the alert from somewhere nearby, but there was nothing. Silence. It seemed they were on their own.
“Quick,” Maya said, “help me get these sashes off the curtains.”
It took a few minutes, but Maya managed to get the heavy, unconscious body into the armchair by the window while Sara tore the long silk sashes from the red curtains. Together they tied the sashes around his midsection and the chair, pulling them tight and knotting them behind him.
“Here,” said Sara. “I found this on the floor.” She held out the thin black stick, the mini stun-gun.
As Maya took it from her, Nolan’s eyelids fluttered and he groaned. “Oh. My head…” He blinked several times before he noticed that he was sitting upright and secured to the chair. “What the hell?” The man struggled, trying to tear loose from his bonds.
“Stop,” Maya ordered. She uncapped the stun-gun, reveal a pair of narrow silver prongs. “This will hit you with a hundred thousand volts if you don’t tell me who you are.”
Nolan smirked. “You really think I’m going to tell you anything?” He shifted his weight to one side as the fingers of his right hand wiggled towards his back pocket. Then he scoffed. “You little bitches… you took my knife?”
“And your guns,” Maya replied. “Who are you, and how did you know we were here?”
Nolan rolled his eyes as his demeanor shifted to an ugly sneer. “Look, we both know I’m not gonna tell you shit. I know that you’re not gonna hurt me. I can see it in your eyes. You don’t have it in you, little girl.” He struggled again.
Maya gritted her teeth. “Sara,” she said, “call the front desk and tell them to get the police here.”
Sara hurried over to the phone.
“You think they’ll get here in time?” Nolan asked as he worked his shoulders back and forth. “It’s only gonna take me a few minutes to get free of this. You’re better off just grabbing one of my guns and shooting me now.” He laughed derisively. “But you won’t.”
“Maybe not,” said a deep voice behind them. “But I will.”
Maya spun at the sound. Agent Watson had slipped silently through the broken door and held a gun aloft, pointed at the bound man. He was bleeding from the forehead, and the sling on his right arm was gone. Maya understood immediately; he didn’t need it anymore. He had only been wearing it to make anyone watching believe he might be less than capable. “You two okay?”
“Yeah,” said Maya. “We’re fine. Are you okay? You’re bleeding.”
“Got jumped right outside the hotel. Friends of his, I assume,” said Watson, gesturing towards Nolan. “They’re not doing much talking anymore, though. Put the phone down, Sara. I’ll handle this.” He leaned over into the man’s face. “Who are you?”
The bound man grinned. “I’m Agent Nolan,” he said sarcastically. “You must be Watson.”
“That’s right.” Agent Watson grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair and jerked his head to the left, and then to the right. Maya wat
ched in confusion; it looked like the agent was inspecting the man’s neck.
“Hey, watch it!” the man winced.
Watson ignored him. “You checked his pockets?”
“Yeah,” Maya confirmed. “But he didn’t have any ID on him. Just a knife, a gun, and a phone. The screen is locked with a four-digit password.”
Watson nodded his approval. “Very thorough.” He holstered his own gun as he said, “If he tries anything, you stick him with that stun-gun.” Watson grabbed the spine-lock knife from the bed and flicked it open.
“Hey, whoa,” the bound man protested, his eyes suddenly widening. “What are you doing with that? What the hell…”
Maya winced as Watson sank the blade into the man’s upper right arm. Sara looked away. Even Nolan gritted his teeth and hissed a panicked breath.
But there was no blood. Watson wasn’t slicing the man’s flesh; he was cutting away the sleeve of his black leather jacket.
“What are you looking for?” Maya asked, keeping the revolver pointed steadily at the man’s stomach.
“A brand,” Watson replied as he tore away the sleeve and inspected the man’s upper arm.
“Are you nuts? You think I’m branded?” Nolan said in desperate confusion.
But Maya understood. The fanatical members of Amun were each branded with an Egyptian glyph. Watson was making sure that this man wasn’t another assassin like Rais, some renegade remnant of the terrorist organization their dad had helped shut down.
“Huh.” Watson shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”
Maya craned her neck to look over his shoulder. There was no brand—but there was something. It was a small tattoo, a triangle, and inside it was what looked like a coiled black snake.
“You’re with the Division?” Watson frowned deeply.
“No. I’m just a real big fan of theirs.” The sarcastic Nolan rolled his eyes again.
“What’s the Division?” Maya asked.
But Watson didn’t answer. “We should go,” he told them. “Grab your things, quickly.”