by Tom Haase
“Ecstatic. How far along are you?”
“About ten weeks.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?” Scott held her hands as he asked this question.
“How the hell should I know? The doctor only told me before I came here. I knew after missing my period, and taking the test, but I kept it from you till I had it confirmed by the doc. We’ll find out together on a subsequent visit, when they do a sonogram.”
Scott let his mind wander. He ran through some of the adventures they had experienced together. Their first meeting, when he’d bumped into her in the Smithsonian, could be classified as a total flop. Later, when her father had given him the money to pursue the Constantine Bible, they’d made a real connection. Then a few weeks after that, when his sister, Bridget, had rescued her father, was when things had progressed to more than a passing interest by both.
In Savannah, Gerti had saved his life after he had taken a bullet meant for her, and she’d rushed him to an emergency room using every asset at her command. In the hospital, they’d used the time to tell one another their true feelings. He loved her and wanted to be married. She said she wanted the same thing. So now, they were, and in the next breath it seemed he would be a father.
“I’m so happy,” he said.
“Do you think we should tell Father now or wait till we find out if it is a boy or a girl?” Gerti asked.
“We’ll have to sooner or later. He isn’t blind.” Scott poured himself another glass.
“Remember, no more alcohol for me,” Gerti said. She reached over and squeezed Scott’s hand. “Let’s go tell him. I’ll call the limo and tell them we’re ready.” She called, and after Scott finished his glass of champagne, they moved toward the front door.
They exited the wine bar, and Scott saw the long black car parked some distance away at the curb with two men standing outside. He escorted Gerti toward the car. The security men started to open the doors.
“Wait,” Gerti blurted out. “I left my purse at the table. I’ll go get it.”
“Let me,” Scott said.
“No, wait here.” She turned and headed back into the bar.
Scott went over to the limo. The man at the passenger side waved at Scott, and the driver came around to the sidewalk without starting the car to meet him. “Hi, there.”
“Where have you guys been?”
“We parked and had some eats. How’s it going with you?” the man asked.
“Super. We need to go to see Mr. Schultz. We have some great news for him,” Scott said.
“What’s the news?” the driver asked as he came to face Scott.
“That’ll have to wait till we tell him,” Scott said.
The two security guards nodded in unison.
Scott looked back and saw Gerti emerging from the wine bar, still a good hundred feet away. He hurried toward her and put his hands on her shoulders to stop her. He hugged her. “I really am so happy.”
He started to move them toward the limo. The driver got into the car. A moment later, Scott heard a click instead of the roar of an engine. Too slow, his mind registered the danger, but he rotated to protect Gerti from what he expected to happen. The explosion propelled Scott against Gerti, who smacked against the wall behind her after Scott’s body slammed into her from the outward pressure of the blast. They both ricocheted off the building’s brick side.
Scott landed on top of her. He rolled off as fast as he could manage and staggered to his feet. He saw a burning hulk of metal, all that remained of the car. Although his head pounded, he turned and looked back at Gerti. He observed a large amount of blood on the sidewalk beneath her head.
His head hurt like hell. He tried to think—what to do, how to help Gerti. She opened her eyes. He recognized her sluggish eye movement as a potential indication of real danger. He needed to concentrate, to act. He picked her up and scanned the area, searching for assistance. He didn’t see the bodyguard, who had stood outside the vehicle, but assumed the man to be injured. His focus turned back to Gerti, whose eyes were now closed. A short distance away, he saw a taxi come to a stop at the curb. He rushed to it and opened the door. He placed Gerti on the backseat and ordered the driver to take them to the nearest hospital.
He looked at his watch.
It displayed 9:45 p.m.
4
Alexandria, Virginia
9:40 p.m.
Matt Higgins jogged along the path that followed the George Washington Parkway, winding along beside the Potomac River from the District of Columbia to Mount Vernon, the home of the first president. He jogged within half a mile of his apartment in the Old Town area of Alexandria. Rain had started to fall twenty minutes earlier, sending the majority of evening joggers home. He now enjoyed the trail almost all to himself.
The mind games he’d played with himself over the last three days after their arrival from Savannah still plagued him. The quandary he wrestled with wasn’t what to do, but how to do it. It took two days for it to crystallize in his brain. Never had he taken that much time to decide on anything. This decision would change the course of his life.
The problem, and the solution, focused on one person, Bridget Donavan. He knew he loved her more than life. After deep contemplation, he’d decided to ask her to marry him if she would. He’d even gone to a local jeweler where he’d bought an engagement ring this afternoon. His whole life now revolved around Bridget. He would call her after he reached home and got cleaned up. He needed to see her tonight. He couldn’t wait any longer to propose. He would explain to her why it had taken him so long to reach the conclusion that he knew already existed deep in his heart.
The rain continued to come down and seemed to be gaining in intensity. He noticed a priest sauntering by under an umbrella, presumably out for an evening stroll. Funny time to do it in this weather, he mused, but he decided not to pay any attention to the thought. He ran on and increased his stride to get home quicker, now that he’d reached his final decision. He’d been stupid for not contacting her already. After the night they’d spent together in Savannah, he subconsciously knew then what he needed to do—no, what he wanted to do.
The two of them had performed admirably as a team in Savannah. He knew they could continue to do that, even if they were married. No problems were too difficult to surmount. His job at the S.O.E. (Special Operations Executive) would provide a framework for their new company, and the director had previously congratulated him on capturing the arms dealer cum terrorist named Karim. That operation had destroyed the largest weapons-importing business, run by a Russian warlord’s nephew. The organization had catered primarily to terrorists on the East Coast, and they had taken it down.
He remembered how Bridget had pursued the dealer down the steep steps of Savannah’s historic district, even as the man fired at her. The man, Michael Alexander Alexandrovitch, had shot her brother, whom she thought dead. She’d cornered him, but there wasn’t any dialogue—no questions, no chitchat like in the movies. She had taken aim, fired point-plank, and walked away without ever looking back.
As his mind digested these thoughts, he hadn’t given any attention to the jogger approaching from his rear. The man stepped in a puddle on the asphalt, and that splashing noise brought Matt back to his wet surroundings. He rotated his head toward the sound and saw a man wearing a dark tracksuit coming fast, intending to pass him. He moved over to allow passage, then turned back around to watch where he stepped while he continued his jog.
In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of the jogger as the man started to pass him. The man reached into his pocket, which caused Matt to focus on him. There would be no reason to do that, running as fast as this man was. When the hand reappeared with a rapid movement, the jogger held out a gun. He aimed the weapon at Matt’s head as the assailant moved directly beside him. This all happened in the time it took for him to take two strides in his jog.
Matt ascertained the imminent danger, and his lightning reflexes kicked in. He rotated toward the man, n
ot away from him, collapsing partially to the ground to get below the level of the weapon, and swung his legs out in front of the man. This encounter had quickly become a life-and-death combat fight. No time to draw his own piece. Matt felt his right shin make contact with the leg of the running assailant.
The force exerted by Matt’s leg did the trick. The attacker yelled as he tripped. The man began to tumble forward but managed to fire three rounds in Matt’s direction. All missed, but a shard from the asphalt grazed Matt’s ear as he rolled away and simultaneously pulled his Glock from his belt. The rain fell into his eyes in his supine position, but he focused on the front sight of his weapon. When it landed on the attacker’s center of mass, he fired two bullets into the man’s chest. Both of Matt’s rounds entered the target. The assailant’s gun slid from his hand.
Matt’s heart pounded so loud in his ears that he thought he might lose his balance as he attempted to get up. It took him a few seconds to hear the phone ringing in his pocket. The noise barely overshadowed the thumping in his chest. With some effort he extracted the cell and saw 9:45 p.m. Bridget’s telephone number displayed on the phone’s screen.
Now his heart stopped a second. He wasn’t ready to speak with her, but he might as well do it now rather than a half hour from now. He hit talk on the display and placed the phone near his ear.
“Hi, you won’t believe what just happened,” he said. He waited on a response. As none came, he assumed she wanted him to say more. “I’ve been meaning to call you. We have some important things to discuss.”
He listened. Nothing. “Bridget” he said. His heart still pounded in his ears, but that intensified on not hearing her voice.
“Bridget,” he shouted into the phone. What the hell was she trying to do?
He went quiet. He barely heard the gurgling noise of someone struggling to talk after being wounded. He remembered this sound from before, when he had encountered it in the desert, after a soldier had taken a bad hit. Why did he hear it now? Nothing now came from his speaker.
He went to the app on his phone to find friends. After a few seconds, Bridget’s location was displayed—an alley off King Street, less than half a mile away. He knew something had gone drastically wrong. He searched his attacker for ID and found none. His mind registered that the man must be a pro, and someone must have hired him to carry out this attack. Why didn’t that surprise him? Then he checked the man’s pulse. None. He started running toward Bridget’s location.
Matt speed-dialed Liz Garcia at the FBI, who acted as his handler/helper on behalf of the director. He and Bridget did off-book operations for the director, and he needed Liz to take care of the downed man. A month ago, the director of the FBI had recruited him to set up a black ops section, answering solely to him through Liz as his contact. After telling her what happened, and that he thought Bridget must be in some trouble, Matt gave her Bridget’s location.
“I’m only a few blocks away. I’ll meet you there,” Liz said as he disconnected.
He ran toward Bridget’s phone and increased his speed to his maximum pace.
His phone buzzed in his hand. It was Scott, Bridget’s brother. No time for him now; he was in New York. He held the display up in front of him and followed the map to Bridget’s position.
He rounded the corner into the alley and momentarily froze. His heart jumped into his mouth at the horrific scene before him.
5
New York, NY
9:40 p.m.
Scott cradled Gerti’s head, pressing his handkerchief against the blood gushing from the head wound. The material soaked through in a matter of seconds. He maneuvered around to remove his shirt and used it to replace the soaked and useless handkerchief.
“Can’t you drive any faster?” he shouted at the taxi driver.
“I’m trying, buddy. Another two, maybe three minutes,” the man said, with what Scott took to be a heavy Indian or Pakistani accent.
The driver honked his horn to encourage traffic to move out of his path, but Scott couldn’t observe any immediate results. He willed the cab to get her to the emergency room faster. From where he sat, he couldn’t do anything more for Gerti. His mind spun around as he closed his eyes forcing away thoughts of the dreadful scene in front of the wine bar.
While he kept pressure on the wound, he reached into his pocket to retrieve his cell. Taking a quick look down at Gerti, he saw his efforts seemed to be stemming the blood flow. His sister’s number appeared on his speed dial menu, and he touched it. Her phone went to voice mail after four rings. Then he dialed Matt, in case they were together. He didn’t know what either one of them could do for him at this time, but his mind told him to do it. Matt’s cell produced the same negative result.
He knew the next call he would make needed to be to her father. On second thought, he tried Matt again but achieved the same outcome. Somehow, he knew from his short history with his new father-in-law that Mr. Schultz would go nuts over this. Scott’s phone rang and on the screen he saw Schultz’s number. His security people had probably already informed the men about the explosion, and his rushing Gerti off in a taxi. He decided to let it go to voicemail. He would call as soon as they got to the hospital. Then, after Gerti received medical attention, he would have something to tell her father.
The hospital’s red emergency entrance sign appeared in the windshield. Relaxing a bit, Scott bent over and gave Gerti a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I love you,” he whispered.
Ratcheting the door open even before the taxi stopped, he stepped out as soon as it did. He noticed an EMT crew walking to a parked ambulance outside the entrance to the emergency room.
“Help, I have a victim of a car bomb in here. Help me,” he shouted.
The EMTs ran to the car and immediately took charge. One went to retrieve a rolling gurney, and the other started checking her vitals. In less than a minute, they took her into an examination room inside the hospital and treated her head wound as they waited for a doctor to examine her.
“You need to go to the lobby to go give your information at the front desk,” the EMT said. He continued to carefully examine Gerti’s head. “I’m not the doc, but I don’t think she’s that severely hurt. From the crack on the head she took, you can plan on her having one hell of a headache in the morning.”
Scott breathed a sigh of relief. He went to the reception desk and filled out the required paperwork, then paid the waiting taxi driver. He could no longer put off the call. When Schultz answered, he dispensed with any greeting.
“She’s fine,” Scott said. “Or at least she will be. The doctor is with her now and is treating her head wound. They won’t let me see her till they’re finished.”
“Are you injured?” Schultz asked.
“No, but what about your men?”
“One is dead. The other is now with the police. Did you see anyone or suspect anything?”
“Nothing. We were coming to see you for a surprise, but that can wait. I also can’t reach my sister or Matt Higgins,” Scott said.
“I’m in my car now. Where are you?” Schultz asked.
Scott told him. Based on the distance Schultz would have to travel, Scott estimated it would be a good twenty minutes before Schultz could arrive at the hospital. Surprisingly, Scott had become a little fond of the old man, and over the months, he felt a mutual bond of respect beginning to form. He hoped his father-in-law liked him, and he did seem pleased with their marriage. There remained, however, some lingering doubts in his mind. Many times in the past, he and his sister had held contrary views and taken actions contrary to those Mr. Schultz desired. His daughter had almost suffered death on the last venture he and Bridget had undertaken, and that hadn’t sat well with her father. Scott believed the old man possessed a long memory.
“The stupid bastards who did this to my daughter will pay,” Schultz said in a voice that conveyed pure hatred for the people responsible for his daughter’s injury. Then he closed the connection.
Twirli
ng his phone in his hand, Scott again tried to reach his sister. Someone answered it, but then the line went dead.
6
Alexandria, Virginia
9:45 p.m.
Matt gasped in horror. He could see Bridget’s bright red hair illuminated by the streetlight in the alley. He wanted to ward off this ugly spectacle, make it go away, as if it never happened, but his eyes took in the scene. He ran toward the supine body of the woman he loved. Before reaching her, he noticed the large quantity of blood splattered on the asphalt. It trickled like a small river into the nearby drain.
“Bridget,” he shouted. He knelt down beside her body, and with great care, he turned her face toward him. Her eyes were open, and to his horror, they appeared lifeless. He had previously witnessed that look in her eyes in the eyes of dead men in combat. He pressed his fingers to her throat. He hoped against hope, but couldn’t detect one. Now tears began to flood down his face. He’d arrived too late. Never again would he hear her voice, her laugh, and never again feel her warm lips on his.
His mind called forth images of their turbulent relationship. He didn’t want to do this, but looking into her beautiful face triggered the response, and he had no control over it. At that time, they’d served together in a special DIA unit to hunt down terrorists. They’d stopped a nuclear explosion from destroying the West’s oil supply and saved a precious icon worth millions to Jews in Italy who were the victims of Nazi oppression. On their last mission, they’d killed a Russian arms dealer who pandered to homegrown terrorists in Savannah, and there they had shared their love.