by James Hunt
“Hawaii.” Bryce spit the answer out quickly, unsure if that was ever Barry’s intended choice.
“It was?” The guard handed the ID back and shook his head. “I bet that was fun.”
Bryce glanced nervously to the rearview mirror. No traffic to force him forward. If this continued, he knew he’d end up blurting something out that his friend would undoubtedly find very un-Barry-like.
“It was great, but listen,” Bryce said. “I need to get in there and finish up quick today. I’ve been putting in a lot of overtime because of the wedding, and the new wife doesn’t like it when I have to be longer on the job than necessary, so I’ll catch up with you later.”
The guard took a step back and threw his hands up, gesturing to the ring on his own finger. “Say no more, my friend. We’ll grab a beer this weekend.”
“Sounds good.” The gate opened, and Bryce drove through, fighting the urge to vomit over the front of his Virginia Hills Utility uniform.
“Good job, baby,” Grace said.
“Yeah,” Sarah added, “way to not suck, Bryce.”
Once parked, Bryce grabbed what gear he would need to sneak through the building and past the security checkpoints and took one last long breath before stepping out of the vehicle. “I don’t know how you deal with the stress, Sarah. I think I understand you a little bit better now.”
“It’s not an easy job,” Sarah said knowingly. “But, after this, I’ll tell you my post-mission secret to a long and healthy career in the field of espionage work. Here’s a hint...” She lowered her voice to an obnoxiously loud whisper. “It’s whiskey.”
“That explains a lot,” Bryce said. He shut the van door and headed for the front steps of Langley’s entrance, his heart rate jacked so high that he thought he could break into cardiac arrest at any minute. “Grace, remember, if either one of us goes down, you get the hell out of here, understand?”
“Everything is going to be fine,” Grace answered.
“Just tell me you understand the protocol,” Bryce reiterated.
“I understand,” Grace said.
“Me too,” Sarah said. “But I need the two of you to do me a favor. No dirty talk. I’d like to keep down what little breakfast I managed to eat.”
“I think that would be more of a disclaimer for you, Sarah,” Bryce said.
“I’ll keep the penis jokes to a minimum. Which reminds me, what did the Jewish doc—”
“For the love of God, stop,” Bryce said.
***
Amidst the bushes and dense forest that surrounded the main CIA building at Langley, Sarah found herself wishing she and Bryce had switched places. But she knew if that happened, then Bryce would not have seen the snipers on top of the warehouse, and then he would have gotten shot, and then Grace would have been mad.
Still, she couldn’t rid herself of the gut-wrenching anguish about not being the person to retrieve her family. Here, all she could do was wait… and of course draw penises in the dirt with her finger.
“How much longer?” Sarah asked.
“He’s going through security now,” Grace said, a glaze of anxiousness covering the firm tone. “Remember, once he’s in the server room, that’s when you trip the alarm.”
Sarah rubbed her hands together eagerly. “This is going to be good.”
“Sarah,” Grace said, her tone slightly more timid than before. “Do you think we’ll be able to get out of this?”
Sarah checked the display on her arm, noticing that Grace had closed Bryce’s communication channel, keeping him in the dark about her question.
“Hell yeah!” Sarah said. “We’ve got the best team in the world.”
“I don’t mean this mission, but more of everything else. Even if we get Black Box, and even if we’re able to prove that it was Grimes who acted alone, and that the CIA didn’t have any knowledge of his actions and they downplay the relationship they had with the GSF, what does that mean for the agency?”
In all honesty, Sarah hadn’t thought that far ahead. Though, to be fair, she never thought that far ahead. The idea that the GSF would no longer exist wasn’t a possibility she’d ever considered. She’d always assumed that she’d work here until she died or couldn’t physically do the job anymore. She and the GSF were one entity. While she loved her family, this was still her life, and the idea of not being able to do this was too much to even think about.
“Mack will think of something.” Sarah nodded as if to disarm her own fears. “He always does.”
“Right,” Grace said, her tone lacking confidence. “Okay, Bryce is in the maintenance room. You’re up.”
“Finally.”
Movement was just what the doctor ordered, and as Sarah glided through the forest soundlessly, bounding over roots, rocks, and dirt, it provided the needed distraction from her mind wandering too far down the rabbit hole of the future.
The warehouse was nothing more than a block structure, the concrete walls a stark contrast to the greenery that surrounded it. Four three-man teams worked the perimeter in a grid. The timing of their movements allowed for a constant line of sight at every angle from any position around the building.
“Once you take them out, you’ll have ninety seconds before the next team realizes their comrades are down,” Grace said. “I’ve got the code to get inside.”
Sarah crouched low and reached for the adapter to her Colts and screwed it into the barrel. Once secure, she loaded the dart cartridge, replacing the normal .45 rounds the 1911 projected so efficiently. She wanted to keep the guards alive if possible. You know, to be nice.
The CIA guards stomped their boots loudly against the grass and sticks, all of them armed with assault rifles. Their body language was passive, no doubt confident that no one in their right mind would ever try to physically infiltrate their facility. To an extent, they were right about that part. Mack had told Sarah repeatedly that she was not in her right mind.
Sarah planted a foot around the corner of the tree trunk she hid behind, and before any of them managed to turn their heads, three anesthetic darts were placed in their necks, and they dropped to the ground, with Sarah already sprinting toward the door. “Party has started. You’re up, Grace.”
“The code to the door is niner-foxtrot-tango-echo-seven.”
Sarah skidded to halt in the grass and smashed her thumb into the keypad. Once the code had been entered, the device lit up green, and Sarah burst into the facility and shut the door behind her.
“The manifest will most likely be in the control room,” Grace said. “I’ll upload the schematic to your display.”
“No need,” Sarah said, already maneuvering through the aisles toward the front. “I memorized it during the brief this morning after Mallory gave me the papers. Just give me the thermal scans for the guards that are inside.”
“But you only saw that paper once,” Grace said, confused.
“Yup.” Sarah stopped abruptly just before turning the corner. Voices and footsteps grew louder. There were no more than two. She raised the pistol and waited for them to enter her line of sight. Two quick trigger pulls, and the guards hit the floor.
Sarah headed toward the front of the warehouse, passing the towering crates and boxes that filled the floor in square grids. Everything was marked in coded numbers, and from what Sarah could see, the description of a needle in a haystack sounded incredibly accurate at this point.
“Sixty seconds till alarm,” Grace said.
Just before the crates to Sarah’s left exposed her to the view from the window of the control room, she hit the floor, skidding over the smooth concrete surface and right next to the control room door. She reached for the handle, twisted, opened, aimed, and fired a dart that penetrated the cloth pants of the guard in the chair.
“Okay,” Grace said. “According to the schematics, they wanted to keep this facility as off the grid as they possibly could. So the manifest should be analog. Most likely kept together by a binder.”
Sara
h opened drawers and filing cabinets, got distracted by the Calvin and Hobbs comic strip that the guard had been reading, and then finally found a thick blue binder underneath the stack of crap on the desk. She flipped through the pages, scouring over each page.
“Thirty seconds, Sarah!” Grace said.
“Your impersonation of Bryce is impeccable,” Sarah said.
She scrolled down, finally locating Black Box and its location in the warehouse, and sprinted out of the control room. The towers of crates and boxes passed in a blur, and Sarah skidded to a stop when she arrived at the section of the warehouse where the device was stored.
“Fifteen seconds!” Grace said.
“I’ll tell you what I told Bryce about the countdown, Grace,” Sarah said. “If I needed to know how badly I was doing, I’d recall the memories I have of my mother.”
Finally, she matched the numbers from the binder to the box in front of her and ripped the top off. She tucked Black Box under her arm and started for the door just as the alarm sounded.
“They have two more units heading in your direction,” Grace said. “At least ten agents, and they’re also calling in air support.”
Sarah shoulder-checked the door open, one hand on her Colt that was still loaded with sleeping darts, and the other protectively holding Black Box.
The remaining three-man teams on patrol veered around the corners, but Sarah focused her attention on the snipers on the rooftop that had converged near the roof’s ledge. A bullet zipped by her left cheek, but Sarah held steady and returned fire, sending a dart into the shooter’s cheek. Two more quick strikes, and the remaining snipers followed suit.
By then, the automatic gunfire from the three-man teams on normal patrol was in full swing, and the gates of hell had officially opened. Bullets splintered tree trunks and made dirt and grass come up in puffs as Sarah sprinted into the forest to evade her pursuers.
“How long do I have to keep these guys busy for?” Sarah asked, her lips moving just as quickly as her feet.
“Until Mack and your family are in the van with me,” Grace said. “So it could be a long ride.”
The shouts and gunfire thickened behind her, and Sarah jolted from another barrage of bullets that disfigured a tree trunk to her right as she sprinted deeper into the woods.
“Fantastic,” Sarah said.
***
The alarms inside Langley were loud, bright emergency lights flashed, and nearly everyone in the facility was on the move. Anyone who wasn’t essential staff or field agents was evacuated from the premises. But amidst the orderly retreat, Bryce hurried against the grain toward the holding cells where Mallory had said that both Mack and Sarah’s family were held.
Bryce, or really Barry, kept his head low, and anytime a CIA employee tried to grab his arm and pull him toward the retreat, he repeated the same line. “Server needs to be secured, heading toward the farm.” With the frantic pace of the mass exodus, the answer satisfied those that he passed. By the time he reached Mack’s room, Bryce’s hand shook so violently, he could barely hold the pick to unlock the door.
Mack sat hunched over with his hands over his ears, blocking out the high-pitched alarm sounds, and it wasn’t until Bryce shook him that he looked up. His eyes weren’t surprised, but there was a hint of hesitation in them. And that was when Bryce remembered the mask. He clicked off the display, but Mack’s expression didn’t change.
“Boss, we’ve got to go,” Bryce said.
Mack kept his seat. “Hill’s getting Black Box?”
“Yeah, and even she can only distract them for so long,” Bryce answered.
“Get Becca and the twins out.”
Bryce clutched Mack’s arm, and a desperation appeared in his voice that he didn’t even realize was there until he spoke. “You’re coming with us.”
“No. If you can’t link Grimes to what happened with Black Box, then the CIA will still need a fall man to point the blame. That’s where I come in.”
The sirens and flashing lights created a cacophony of noise and distraction that only exacerbated the fear and adrenaline pumping through Bryce’s veins. The man who was willing to sacrifice himself on the altar of all of this bullshit was the same man that hired him, trained him, gave him the opportunity to do something worthwhile with his life.
“I won’t let you stay,” Bryce said.
“You don’t have a choice, because this is an order,” Mack said, the stern tone returning even amidst the chaos of this world. “Get Sarah’s family out. Get Black Box. And bring Runehart and whoever else stands with him down.”
Mack reached into his back pocket and pulled out a letter. He stuffed the paper into Bryce’s palm and closed his fingers around it.
Bryce stared at the paper then looked to Mack. The sirens continued to scream, and the lights continued to flash. His nerves were fried. And he could tell there was no convincing the big man. Slowly, with his eyes tearing, he backed out of the room and closed the door.
“Grace, get me a route to Becca and the girls,” Bryce said.
“Do you have Mack?” Grace asked.
Bryce stuffed the note into his pocket. Emptiness spread through him, and as it grew, the space was slowly filled with an anger he didn’t know existed as he jogged down the hallways, his mind far from the repercussions of being caught. “Just find them, Grace.”
***
A thin, hazy veil from the gas and gone smoke had descended on the forest surrounding the CIA building and warehouse. Sarah’s eyes were on fire, snot dribbling from her nose. The dart cartridges were empty, and she had been forced to switch to the .45 rounds, though she made sure to be careful of where she aimed. Heads, stomachs, and backs were off limits unless protected by Kevlar. But shoulders, arms, and butts were all fair game.
“How’s Bryce looking?” Sarah asked, emerging from behind the trunk of a thick maple and planting two into a chest protected by Kevlar.
“He’s getting Becca and the kids right now,” Grace answered. “You’ve got a unit approaching from the south. Six-man team, all dressed in tactical gear, with assault rifles.”
“And the fun just keeps coming.” Sarah holstered the pistol and zipped up her jacket, flipping up the collar to provide as much protection as possible. Helicopter blades thumped in the air, and Sarah knew it wouldn’t be long before the rest of the units were pulled back and the chopper dropped enough ordnance on her to level the mountainous ground flat.
But with the density of the trees, it wasn’t hard for Sarah to move undetected, and with Grace as her eyes in the sky, it was almost too easy. Almost.
She was still outnumbered, couldn’t shoot to kill, and she was going on almost thirty-six hours of zero sleep. All in all, it was a productive day.
Sarah flanked the six-man team that was clustered together, their rifles raised. She set Black Box in the dirt, and soundlessly, she crept up behind the two rear team members and gently tapped their shoulders.
The CIA agents turned on a dime, screaming into their radios. Sarah cut their screams short by slamming her hands against their throats, dropping the agents to the ground. While the two men wallowed on the grass, dirt, and leaves, Sarah pressed forward, knocking the next two on the ground with a quick sweep of her right leg, but fatigue had caught up with her, because by the time she made it to the lead team members, they had managed to fire one round a piece that knocked into her stomach and right leg before she yanked the rifles from their hands.
Knives were drawn after two quick jabs to the face, and they stumbled backward. The two middle team members Sarah had brought down with the leg sweep suddenly found their feet, and the four agents circled her like sharks that smelled blood in the water.
They attacked in unison, and Sarah singled out the agent to her back left as the weak link. She managed to get a half step on him, which cost him a quick snap of his wrist that held the blade. The agent dropped to his knees, too focused on controlling the pain radiating through his arm to be a bother any lon
ger.
A blade scraped her right shoulder as the remaining agents pressed their attack. Steel slashed the air, strikes coming from all angles. Sarah ducked left and right, waiting patiently for her time to pounce.
It was thirty seconds of relentless assault before Sarah managed to land a quick jab to the ribs of one agent then plant the palm of her hand into the nose of another, making a warm burst of blood erupt and rain down on her sleeve and fingers.
Sarah roundhouse kicked the last standing agent, catching the back of his head with the heel of her boot, and knocked him to the dirt. She slammed her knee into a chin then her fist into another cheek and the toe of her boot into one more chin, and the fight had suddenly gone out of the rest of the agents.
“That wasn’t so hard was it, boys?” Sarah asked.
The chopper blades grew louder, and Sarah heard the familiar whine of a machine gun.
“Grace, where are the rest of the agents?”
“Looks like everyone else in the area is starting to retreat. Why?”
“Son of a bitch.” Sarah snatched Black Box from the clump of grass where she’d left it then sprinted between the trees, leaving the bodies of the agents behind. She managed to make it as least fifty yards before the chopper decided to plow through and send its hail of bullets through the canopy. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”
The heavy-caliber bullets tore through the tree trunks as though they were papier-mâché. One of the bullets sliced the side of her left calf, the burn lingering long after the bullet had disappeared. She spun to the ground, rolling a few feet over branches and rocks before she finally came to a stop, and the chopper passed overhead.
Sarah’s ears were ringing, and as she lay in the dirt, she wasn’t sure what part of her had been hit. It was hard to narrow down the origin of pain when everything hurt.
“Am I dead?” Sarah asked.
“Your vitals still look good, though your blood pressure is a little high,” Grace said.
“Gunfire will do that to you,” Sarah said, rolling to her side and moaning a labored grunt. She patted down her chest and legs, the only injury the cut on her calf from the fifty-caliber bullet. Even her Kevlar had its limits.
