The Secret Weapon

by Bradley Wright

  While he was concerned about Karen and her gun, he was more worried about whether or not she had any help. If she had time to get out of his apartment and then come back, she had time to find a phone and call for help. But just like everything else about this mysterious woman, he had no idea if she was working alone or not.

  His phone began to ring.

  “Where are you?” he answered.

  “The ticket booth in Leicester Square. Please help me. She saw me come in here!”

  King pocketed the phone and ran for the fountain. He dove behind an oversized stone flower pot at the foot of the fountain when he saw a woman in a white hat approaching the ticket booth. She was moving for the right side, so he stayed low and ran around the left side of the fountain. He did a quick scan of the surrounding area, but it was too dark to detect any help nearby that Karen may have called in. He had no choice but to act as if she hadn’t.

  As Karen disappeared around the front of the ticket booth, King ran for the same place on the opposite side. When he rounded the ticket booth, he heard Bentley scream.

  “Please, don’t shoot!”

  King hopped the short wrought iron fence that divided the park from the ticket booth, and the next thing he saw was Karen pointing her gun inside the window. There was nowhere for Bentley to hide inside that little building. King lowered his head and dove for Karen’s waist. At the same time he made contact, he heard the gun go off. He landed on top of Karen, and a chorus of screams sounded from bystanders on the surrounding block.

  King quickly moved into a mounted position over Karen’s body. He sat his full weight down on her hips as he straddled her, lying forward to pin her upper body beneath him as he wrapped his right hand around her left wrist. He squeezed with great strength, and when he slammed the back of her hand against the concrete, the gun bounced a few feet down the sidewalk.

  A crowd began to gather around them as Karen squirmed beneath him.

  “MI5!” King shouted. “Back away!” He had about the furthest thing you could have from a British accent. He didn’t exactly have a country twang, but Kentucky boys never sound as sophisticated as a Londoner.

  The crowd didn’t move away, but he hoped claiming to be British intelligence would at least keep anyone from trying to intervene.

  Karen shrimped her legs up between his as she pushed his hip back with her right hand—a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu escape attempt. This wasn’t high-level defense, but clearly Karen was trained. King countered the escape by pushing her legs back down between his, scooting up on her body, and digging his forearm under her chin. Once he got back to mount, he squeezed his legs together and put the rest of his weight on her neck with his forearm. There was only one move she could make now before he crushed her windpipe. She was going to have to give up her back.

  When the pressure became too much for her to bear, she rolled underneath him, putting her stomach on the ground. It was always a person’s last last-ditch survival effort in this situation, and King was ready for it. He slid his right arm under her chin and locked in a rear naked choke. She was unconscious five seconds later.

  King rose up, put his knee on her back, and looked into the crowd.

  “I lost my handcuffs a couple of blocks back. Anyone have a belt or a tie I can use? She’s gonna wake up any second now.”

  “Sure, here ya go, mate.” A man stepped forward undoing his tie.

  Karen came back to life under his knee, gasping for breath. King sat back down, straddling her, as he took the tie.

  “One more favor?” King said to the man.

  “Sure.”

  “Grab her gun over there for me?” He pointed off to the right. “Just don’t touch the trigger. Pick it up by the barrel.”

  The man did as King asked.

  Karen found her voice. “Get off of me!”

  King took the gun from the man and tucked it in his hip holster. It wasn’t an exact fit, but it was close enough to stay put. He then took Karen’s left arm and bent it back behind her. She screamed in pain.

  “Are you all just going to stand there while this maniac assaults me?” Karen shouted.

  “They all saw you with the gun.” He grabbed her right arm, but she ripped it away from him. King looked up at the young man again. “You mind?”

  The young man crouched down and began turning Karen’s arm back toward King.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she shouted. “Help me!”

  The young man helped hold Karen’s arm in place as King tied the tie around her wrists. Tight.

  “One last thing, will you check on the girl in the ticket booth?”

  King stood and brought Karen up with him. Before the young man could have a look, Bentley came crawling out of the window.

  “I think he’s dead!” Bentley shouted.

  “Holy shit!” the young man said when he ducked his head through the window.

  King knew Karen’s bullet must have moved to the ticket attendant, away from Bentley, when he tackled Karen. They needed to get out of there. The police would be there any second. Before King could react, Bentley walked over and punched Karen in the face.

  “We were supposed to be friends!”

  “Bentley,” King said. “We have to go. Go get the car.”

  Sirens sounded in the distance, but they weren’t far. Bentley backed away. “I’m staying and going with the police.”

  “Bentley.”

  “This is the second time today someone has tried to kill me.”

  “And this is the second time today I didn’t let it happen.”

  King could see that Bentley’s wheels were turning. The sirens drew closer. The crowd didn’t dissolve. King could feel the cell phone cameras watching and listening to everything they were saying. As he held Karen’s arms tight, he pulled his hat lower with his free hand.

  “Bentley, just listen to me. By now the police know that you were the target of the car bomb. When you tell them who you are, which you will have to do when you are telling them about how Karen here tried to kill you, they’ll have no choice but to report it to MI5. Once they do that, the US will be notified as well. I don’t think I have to mention what might happen if the people who tried to kill you find out where you are. And I won’t be there to save you a third time.”

  Multiple police cars swerved around the Square. Their window to escape was closing. And Alexander King absolutely could not be brought in. Explaining how a dead man walked the streets of London would be extremely difficult. Not to mention the fact he was going to have to carry Karen. They had to go right then, or he was going to have to let Karen go. And that wasn’t an option.

  Karen turned and managed to knee King in the groin. Though the pain was excruciating, he didn’t let go of her wrists. Instead, when he doubled over, it pulled her closer, pretty much where he had been standing. That’s why the bullet ripped right through her head instead of his. King didn’t even know Karen had been shot until the report from the sniper rifle caught up to his ears and her blood began pouring onto his back as she wobbled dead on her feet before she fell.

  The screams from the crowd erupted, and they finally all cleared out of the area. As they panicked, King focused, and he rushed forward, took Bentley over his shoulder, and turned to run back to Chinatown. The police all began searching for the sniper, giving King back that window he needed to get away.

  King knew he was lucky to be running at all. As he crossed the street, he put Bentley down and made sure she began running with him. He knew he was going to make the most of this second chance. He was finished playing defense; it was time to take the fight to the enemy.

  As soon as he found out who the enemy really was.

  18

  Bruges, Belgium

  Alexander King and Bentley Martin were able to make it to Bentley’s car and get out of London without another brush with the police. The sniper shooting Karen had drawn the attention of those officers away from them. And King couldn’t help but think that Karen dying befo
re he could question her really set him back in his chances of connecting the dots back to the man or woman pulling the terrorist strings.

  Alexander King made the final turn of the drive and coasted toward the safe house.

  “Where are we?” Bentley roused in the passenger seat with a yawn and a stretch.

  “Bruges.”

  It wasn’t visible at the moment because it was still dark, but at the end of the street there was water. King had only been there once, but the safe house was a little cottage on a corner, adjacent to the canal.

  “Belgium?” She sat up and peered out the window. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “About an hour and twenty. Been here before?”

  “No, but I’ve heard about it. Doesn’t it have a nickname because of its canals or something?”

  “The Venice of the North,” he said.

  “Yes, that’s it. I figured after we got out of the Channel Tunnel, you’d for sure be taking me to Paris. Is it safe here in Bruges?”

  King glanced over at her as he turned into the driveway. “I think the only safe thing to do at this point is just assume that nowhere is safe. We won’t be staying long.”

  Bentley was quiet.

  “Why were you crying earlier?” he asked her. “When we first got in the car?”

  “Karen was, well, I thought she was my friend. I’ve never seen anyone close to me get killed like that.”

  King nodded. He understood, a little, but the way she had been sobbing still seemed off to him. But she was a seventeen-year-old. No matter how mature and smart she was, she was still just a kid.

  King shut off the engine and exited the car. There was a chill in the air and he could feel the dampness that surrounded them. Bentley got out and followed close behind. There were streetlamps behind them, but the yellow light barely made it to the front door of the cottage. King approached the keypad. He typed in the four digits, and the dead bolt released. King felt for his weapon. The grip on Karen’s Beretta felt odd in his hand after being so used to carrying a Glock. But it would do the job all the same. He pulled it out and turned the doorknob with his other hand.

  Inside, the cottage had an abandoned smell. Like no one had lived there in years. Probably because they hadn’t. These types of places were maintained by a contracted agency, and they were rarely used.

  “Wait here,” King said. He flipped on the light. There were stairs directly in front of them. He remembered that straight down the hall was the kitchen.

  He gave the house a thorough walk-through and decided it was safe. After he pulled the car into the garage, he suggested Bentley get some more rest.

  “What about you? Don’t you ever sleep?” she asked as he walked her into the only bedroom in the house.

  “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

  It was something his dad used to say. His mom hated when he said it. His father’s point to Alexander at the time was that people who slept too much were getting outworked. His father was a relentless businessman. That was the side of his dad that King was trying his best to remember. Instead of what happened in Moscow. How he had betrayed his son and his entire family.

  “Earth to Secret Agent Guy!” Bentley said loudly, snapping him out of his trance.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “I said, I don’t even know your name. What do I call you?”

  King opened the closet and pulled a pillow and a blanket from the top shelf. “Just call me X.”

  “Okay, X. Where are you going to sleep?”

  “I’ll take the couch. Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” King walked out the door into the hallway.

  “Then how do you know it’s going to be a long day?”

  “From experience. Every day is long when someone is trying to kill you.”

  Bentley frowned and folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, great. Sweet dreams to you too, X.”

  King smiled and turned to walk down the hall.

  “Wait,” Bentley said.

  When he turned around, she was standing in the doorway, looking down at her feet.

  “Thank you.”

  King watched as she ran her foot along the hardwood in a nervous motion. Then she looked up at him.

  “Really, you saved my life.”

  King gave her a nod. “It’s my job.”

  “No, your job was to kill me. Instead, you technically saved me twice. Why? Is it because you feel bad? Because you killed my father?”

  King was shocked for a moment. That was about the last thing he expected to come out of her mouth. After a spilt second of panic, he realized she was speculating. Bentley was clearly a smart cookie, so he had to tread lightly.

  “Partially.”

  Or not.

  King learned long ago that when someone is smart and intuitive, as Bentley clearly was, it was best to lead with the truth. He immediately second-guessed himself when he watched her jaw nearly hit the floor.

  “Wow.” She cleared her throat and recovered from her shock. “For a secret agent, you aren’t very good with secrets.”

  “I’m sorry you had to find out this way, Bentley.”

  “You kidding me? I was just shocked you admitted it. I’m actually doing my best not to run over there and hug you. That man made my mother’s life miserable. And he for damn sure never cared about me.”

  King felt relieved. One of the reasons he was so quick to blurt out the truth was because of what he’d been through in the past. The way his father lied to his entire family made King strive to be straight up, always. Sometimes that was a bad thing—being overly honest—but at least people knew where you stood.

  “So . . . partially?” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I asked if you saved me because you killed my dad. And you said partially. What’s the rest?”

  Bentley’s kill order report said she had been involved in managing the numbers for her father’s company, which helped fund the terrorist organization King was trying to run down. It said she was some sort of mathematical genius. He needed to start there. He could just come out and ask her if she worked with her father, but asking it a different way would give him a more honest answer.

  “You said you’re studying at Oxford?”

  “Right.”

  “What’s your major?”

  She folded her arms. “Are you changing the subject? I asked why you saved me. What does college have to do with that?”

  “Just answer the question.” It was King’s turn to fold his arms across his chest.

  “Okay . . . English. Well, technically creative writing.”

  This would be easy enough to check on, and Bentley would know that, so he didn’t believe she was lying. It answered the question in his mind of whether she’d been the one running the numbers for her father. He followed another line of thought.

  “Okay. Did Karen ever tell you what she was studying at Cambridge?”

  “No. But I don’t even think she was ever really going to any university. I think it was all a lie.”

  King agreed with her. He felt Karen’s only job was to shadow Bentley. What he really wanted to know, though, was for whom.

  “Girl was damn good with numbers, though. Like freakishly good. She could calculate huge numbers on the fly.”

  Alarm bells rang out everywhere in King’s head. He needed to talk to Sam, and he needed to have a conversation with Director Hartsfield as well. Somebody somewhere inside the government had arranged for a target to be put on Bentley’s back. These kinds of things didn’t happen by mistake, and he had to get to the bottom of it.

  “Well, I’ve got some phone calls to make,” he told her. “If you need something, I’ll be right downstairs.”

  “Seriously? You still didn’t tell me why you saved me. I answered your questions. Can you give me that much?”

  Once again he decided to go with the truth. “I thoug
ht you could be the key to bringing down one of the largest terrorist organizations in the world.”

  Bentley laughed as she shook her head in disbelief. “Me?”

  “Yeah . . . you.”

  “And what did you discover?” she said.

  “That you can’t.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but I could have told you that much, X.”

  “You can’t,” he said, staying on the subject, “but I think Karen can.”

  19

  Langley, Virginia

  Bobby Gibbons watched as his old friend and director of the CIA, Mary Hartsfield, poured him a coffee. It had been a while since he’d seen her. The stresses of the job had aged her in what seemed double time. She didn’t look old; she just looked . . . tired. Her office looked more like a bedroom. Linens and pillows were strewn over the couch.

  “I’m really sorry to bother you so late, Mary. But this just couldn’t wait.”

  Mary took the carafe back over to the table. She put her shoulder-length, salt-and-pepper hair up in a ponytail. “Well, it’s good to see you, Bobby. Looks like things are going well out on the campaign trail. I wish we could talk more in depth about it, but I can’t say I have a lot of time. This second incident in London has everyone in a panic.”

  Bobby took a sip of coffee. It was hot on his lips, but drinkable. The thought of the CIA investigating what Doug had dragged him into in London made his stomach sour. “What do attacks in London have to do with CIA?”

  “MI5 says someone with an American accent was claiming to be MI5 at the scene of the shooting. Videos of the incident are all over the internet now. We’re just trying to get our arms around it.”

  Bobby glanced over at the linens on the couch. “Looks like you’re pulling double duty.”

  She followed his eyes. “Oh, yeah, well . . . that’s been a regular occurrence as of late, unfortunately. I just grab a nap whenever I can.”

  “You can always come work for me. Pay’s just as good, and nowhere near the stress.”