Element 42

by Seeley James

  Common sense told me I had a good deal of time to wait, since my team would be on foot for at least the first mile. I played the tourist until I tired of looking at historical markers in a language that meant nothing to me. A park bench opposite the naked woman-warrior offered a little shade and seclusion, not to mention a beautiful view.

  I called the Major and she filled me in on the latest news from Sabel Gardens. A few minutes later, Tania’s voice floated to me. “Hey dumbass, the statue of Zhang Zhixin is over there.”

  With a quick glance at her, I followed her pointed finger to a stone statue across the grass.

  “This is Zhang Zhixin,” I said, “says so right on the plaque.”

  She pulled her sunglasses down her nose, stepped to the naked woman-warrior, and bent down to read the plaque. No translations. She straightened up and frowned at me. “You can’t read Chinese.”

  “That guy told me.” I waved a hand in the direction of some people who’d been there a minute earlier but must’ve left. “Where are Miguel and Emily?”

  “They aren’t coming,” said an English accent behind me.

  An invisible short man with a buzzcut stepped out of the shadows. Invisible because he was looking away from us as if he wasn’t there or we weren’t there, or someone wasn’t somewhere. Looking at him gave you the impression his words were meant for someone else, and you were too embarrassed to ask. He moved as if he were nothing, an unimportant stranger, and looking at him embarrassed you even more. He appeared and disappeared at will. I’d seen men like him before: Special Air Service, or SAS. They were the British model from which all other countries fashioned their special ops regiments. This guy was the archetype—compact, lean, and muscular like a gymnast. I’d bet a paycheck the guy had a tattoo: a dagger with wings and a scroll reading, “Who Dares Wins”.

  He sat on the bench, looking at me in his peripheral vision, his nose pointing ahead and slightly away. “The police allowed Miguel a call to the American Embassy. He called me instead.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Pia’s Ferrari outpaced the Mustang until they hit traffic. Downshifting while keeping the engine revved to nearly the 9,000 rpm redline, she passed a sedan full of startled faces. The Mustang made the same pass on a blind curve, clipping the sedan. In the distance, the motorcycle’s single taillight crested the next hill.

  A catering van pulled out of an estate and onto the road. Pia swerved to the shoulder, snapped a mailbox off at ground level and sent it cartwheeling into the air behind them. The open space shrank faster than she could pass the van. The caterer slammed on his brakes, sending smoke and noise into her open cockpit as she sideswiped a retaining wall and left some paint and bodywork behind. Her angle of re-entry forced her to fishtail before she corrected and got back on track. The adventure scrubbed time off their lead over the Mustang.

  Verges clung to the dash with one hand; his other wrapped in his seatbelt, his head leaned out his lowered window. She couldn’t tell if he was looking back or puking.

  The Mustang passed the caterer over the double yellow, and opened fire. In the mirror, she saw their ricochets like sparklers on the pavement. They started too low then swung wildly up as the bumps in the road, exaggerated by speed, tossed their barrels like toothpicks in a tornado.

  Over the hillcrest, she saw Otis turn onto Falls Road, heading into Potomac. His rate of speed indicated a route through town, not into the warren of suburban streets nearby. He didn’t expect her to live long enough to catch him. She glanced at her dashboard clock. Two in the morning. Very little traffic. She stomped on the gas pedal.

  She took the turn at seventy, using all the lanes to widen her radius, and ended up trimming someone’s hedge with her side mirror. Nothing lay ahead but the glow of the village center above the trees. She raised her speed in a car built for that kind of road, taking the sweeping turns and gentle hills like Sebastian Vettel. Coming over the rise before the town’s only stoplight, she saw Otis, less than half a mile ahead.

  His small bike shuddered through the red light.

  It turned green three seconds before she blew through it.

  Behind her, the Mustang struggled to match her speed. Another string of muzzle flashes sparked in her mirror.

  She yelled over the wind to Verges. “Can you shoot those guys?”

  “I can’t get a clear shot.”

  “Just brush them back.”

  “No ma’am. Not with my service weapon. If the bullet hit a civilian—”

  “I get it.” She dug her pistol out. “Use mine, the darts won’t penetrate anything thicker than a barn jacket. But it might scare them off.”

  At the next rise, the Mustang appeared and he squeezed off three shots.

  The Ferrari’s headlights illuminated a cop, standing beside his car with a cup of coffee in his hand. At her high rate of speed, it had the effect of looking like a flash picture. Pia calculated the required events in her head. The cop would drop the coffee, jump in his car, throw it in gear, turn on the lights, stomp on the gas, and pull onto the road. Nine seconds. Then he would accelerate from stopped to full speed. Another fifteen seconds. Twenty-four seconds altogether. She’d be a mile down the road and a lot closer to Otis.

  The Mustang reappeared in her mirror. Though farther back and still losing ground, they hadn’t given up.

  The cop fired up his lights, flashing red and blue through the village center. He pulled onto the road without seeing the approaching Mustang. The Kazakhs swerved and lost control. They slid sideways, their front bumper smashing the cop’s door, and spun out in front of him, crashing into a utility box. The cop stopped.

  Two problems solved.

  From Potomac’s center to the end of Falls Road is two miles, and her 458 Spider could reach twice the speed of Otis’s small Honda on the straight, empty street. Pia pushed it as fast as she dared, bringing him inside her high beams as he approached the ninety-degree left turn onto MacArthur Boulevard.

  Otis slowed. Pia closed, knowing cars can corner faster than motorcycles. Not in tight maneuvers, but a full left turn where the two narrow roads met, the bike could lean only so far while four wheels could drift.

  Otis conceded as little as possible, accelerating out of the turn and into the narrow wooded lane.

  Pia accelerated too, taking the first sweeping turn faster than Otis and climbed into his mirrors.

  She saw his first mistake. Instead of using his eyes, he turned his head to look at his side mirror. The sudden air turbulence threw his balance off. She slowed. He wobbled and corrected and made his second mistake. He hit the brakes in a split second of panic. His almost-controlled weave became erratic. Pia slammed on her brakes.

  Otis continued, fighting his out-of-control bike with force instead of cool composure.

  ABS stuttered all four of her tires, leaving her to watch Otis lose it after he’d scrubbed some, but not enough, of his speed. The bike tipped too far and went over in a shower of sparks. She couldn’t make out quite where he went until the smoke and dust cleared two seconds later.

  At the edge of her headlight beams, a silhouette limped from where the bike was crushed against an elm tree. He stopped, fired two badly aimed rounds, then fled into the forest.

  Pia ground to a stop, inches from the bike.

  “Holy shit,” Verges said. “Where did you learn to drive like—”

  Pia swapped her mag for a full one and leapt out of the car. Leading with her Glock, she slid between trees, pressing her shoulder to one, looking around, then moving to the next. She couldn’t see him. For every shred of light the harvest moon reflected to earth, the trees overhead, still adorned with half of their autumn leaves, blocked it out.

  She listened for animals, footsteps, insects, anything that would indicate his direction.

  A flicker of light drew her attention. Deep in the woods, where her headlights barely reached, something had moved.

  She ran laterally, ten trees deeper in, a little closer to the Potomac River
and a little farther from her personal FBI agent.

  She checked again and listened. A branch snapped fifty yards ahead and a little right. She ran half of it.

  Red-and-blue cop lights streaked through the trees far behind her, coming from the opposite direction. The cop in town had called in backup. Verges could explain the situation. She refocused on the fugitive.

  Turning her head ninety degrees, she let her voice echo to him. “Where’s the shipment of Element 42, Otis?”

  She jogged three trees to the left.

  He fired a three-round burst from ten yards away, five hardwood trees between them. If she remembered her training right, that would probably be an AK-47 from one of his Kazakhs. Her fingers squeezed around her nine-dart Glock. She was outgunned. In that moment, she understood why her veteran agents continually lobbied for real bullets.

  “How would I know?” His answer echoed, making it hard to pinpoint, but his footsteps gave him away.

  “Aren’t you helping Violet Windsor?”

  “That psychopath? Hell no.”

  She tiptoed two trees closer and pressed her back against an oak. “Is the shipment in Philly?”

  He moved in a direction she couldn’t track.

  “Philadelphia? Why would it be there?”

  “Quit playing games. Where is it?”

  Three bullets ripped the bark off her tree. She ran to her right, four trees this time, and peered back where she’d seen the muzzle flash. A shadow that looked like a man leaned away from her. She fired.

  He spun around, firing two quick bursts.

  Twelve in all, she figured. Out of thirty, that left him eighteen.

  “You won’t get out of these woods.” She moved two trees left.

  “You mean alive? If I take you hostage, they’ll let me go.” He fired again, a three-round burst, a hundred twenty degrees away from her.

  “First, I’d never let you take me hostage.” She pressed her back to the nearest tree. “And second, the cops never let a hostage-taker leave the scene.”

  “Guess you’ll have to die, then.”

  Calculating the risk, she dashed in his direction. She tripped over a fallen branch, landed on her outstretched arms. The pistol fired and bounced into the air.

  Otis peppered the trees a foot over her head, four or five rounds at least. She stayed on the ground until he stopped.

  When she heard him trotting toward her, she scrambled for her weapon, feeling through the leaves and muck with her fingers. He approached on the wrong side of a group of saplings. She touched the Glock, but his feet neared the turn where he would see her. She jumped up and stepped behind a tree. He fired at the tree next to her, one round.

  Pia tried to control her breathing. He was close enough to hear her. His jacket scraped against bark five yards away.

  She dove for her weapon, grabbed it and a fist full of grubby leaves, rolled, and popped up on her feet. She ran twenty yards before taking cover behind another hardwood.

  He blasted away at the trees behind her. Three more rounds.

  A spotlight from the road stabbed through the woods, searching for them. A voice on a bullhorn barked about coming out with your hands up. Verges must have flashed his badge and won them over. She was not giving up her weapon while Otis still had his.

  One more round hit the tree she was leaning against. He knew he was low on ammo. She rolled to the side and fired three darts, not to hit him but to give herself some cover. He ducked away. She sprinted back the way she came and found a tree where she could see him.

  “Where’s Element 42, Otis?”

  “What do you think this is, some dumb movie where the bad guy spills his guts at the end? Hate to break it to you, but—I’m not the bad guy.” He paused. “I’ll tell you the truth, Pia: I have no idea where it is and I don’t care.”

  She stepped out and fired where she’d seen his shadow. He was gone. “Then where are you going to attack?”

  One round hit the tree next to her. She’d lost count but he had to be empty. She stepped out, leading with her pistol, and found him. She fired two darts, but he was gone again.

  Metal-on-metal sounds came from his direction. Clicking and snapping.

  A shiver ran through her skin when she realized he’d changed magazines. He had another thirty rounds.

  She had two.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no ‘attack’ planned.”

  “Chapman told me you were going to spread it over Philadelphia, kill the old people, and sell them Levoxavir.”

  “Maybe that’s what he and Violet Windsor planned. But they’re both dead.”

  Voices approached from the road. A voice on a bullhorn blared out. “Stop! Drop your weapons! Put your hands where I can see them.”

  A scraping sound came from her left. She turned, faced him, and looked down her Glock’s sight into his muzzle.

  She fired a dart as she leapt behind a tree surrounded by thick brush. His bullets came so close she felt them buzz through her hair.

  She crouched low and peered between the leaves. The cops were coming in with flashlights. Otis faced them in a shadow, his rifle butted against his shoulder. She took two silent steps, aimed carefully at his broad back, then took two more steps. She had him cold.

  Something about her Glock registered in her mind. The slide was back, the barrel exposed—empty. No. There should be one left. Unless she miscounted. In disbelief, she pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. No click, no slide movement, nothing. Empty.

  Her free hand slowly and silently slid the Glock back into the normal position. She held the pistol steady in the deadliest bluff of her life. “Drop it, Otis.”

  He smiled when he turned. “You’re not a killer.”

  He reached out, grabbed her arm, pulled her close to his barrel and stuck it under her chin.

  “You’re no killer either, Otis. You kill me and they’ll kill you.”

  Flashlights flickered over and past them before returning to them.

  “PUT THE WEAPON ON THE GROUND NOW!” Verges’s voice had a newfound authority. “DOWN. NOW. DROP YOUR WEAPON. DO IT NOW.”

  Otis smiled into the light. Pia shoved her right arm into the barrel, forcing it wide and pounded his chin with her open left hand. She twisted her core back to the left, bringing her elbow hard into the bridge of his nose. He staggered back and she backed away.

  “Put the gun down,” Pia said. “C’mon, Otis.”

  Otis raised it in a haphazard fashion as blood flowed from his nose. He fired a shot halfway between Pia and Verges.

  “PUT THE GUN DOWN. GET ON YOUR KNEES.” Verges moved in closer.

  Otis fired another round.

  Verges put a round through Otis’s ear that exited two inches farther back in his skull. Two tidy holes that filled with blood. He fell over and blinked at Pia.

  She tossed his AK-47 three feet behind him and knelt next to him.

  “He’s down!” she yelled. “I’ve secured his weapon.”

  His eyes wandered around, confused. “Wha … happened?”

  “Where is Element 42?”

  “Fuck you. Did … you shoot me in the head?”

  “Help is coming. Hang in there, Otis.”

  The cops and Verges ran up, flashlights shining on Otis. His blood was darker than she expected. It spilled into the grass and leaves slow and thick.

  “Otis, thousands of lives are at risk. Tell me about it. I don’t believe it’s about Levoxavir.”

  “What’s … Levoxavir?” He gasped deep and rolled his head. “I feel funny. I feel…”

  Pia grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “C’mon, Otis, give me a clue.”

  “My head hurts. Did you shoot me in the… aw damn. I’m sorry.”

  “What are you sorry about, Otis? What’s this all about? Why risk everything?”

  “It’s a good cause, Pia. You’d like it. Chen, Wu, Mokin. Not Violet. She’s dead.” He took a deep breath as if he were relaxing after a hard
day at work. “Too many… too many people.”

  Pia gazed up at Verges. It took a moment for them to get the hint, but the cops backed up a few steps.

  “It’s just you and me, Otis. Tell me now. What’s this all about?”

  “I’m… I don’t feel too… What? No. I’m not telling you shit … bitch.”

  He took another deep breath. He clenched his teeth and his face bunched up in pain. His body spasmed, he exhaled and relaxed. Black bile oozed from his mouth.

  CHAPTER 43

  I said, “Nigel—if that really is your name—how did it happen?”

  The SAS man sighed. “Miguel flattened three of them, out cold. One Kazakh was still standing when his girl lost it and started screaming. The local police showed up and banged them up.”

  “Yeah, I got that part the first time. I mean, why did he call you? You look like a major or a colonel.”

  For the first time, Nigel made eye contact. It was only a flicker, but enough to tell me what I suspected. He glanced away to my favorite statue, the naked woman-warrior on a horse. “Lieutenant colonel actually, currently the cultural attaché, British Embassy. Miguel helped me out of a right bugger. I owe him a favor.”

  “You’re the SAS officer he helped back in Qatar.”

  Miguel made a habit of rescuing officers from embarrassing situations whenever and wherever he found himself on leave. Nigel had attended a brothel-party when the Qatari police raided it. Qatar’s finest were upset about the ratio of men to women at the party—fourteen men, no women. Miguel happened along and pulled him out of the scrum. Nigel was one of fifty or so officers around the world forever in Miguel’s debt.

  “Ah.” He looked away. “So he told you about that, did he?”

  I said nothing.

  “Well.” Nigel stood. “There you have it. I’ll be off then.”

  “Hold up. As I recall the Qatar incident, you owe him more than a message delivery.”

  He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and bit the inside of his cheek. “You can always ask.”