As he scanned the thin crowd, he realized he was keeping an eye out for the clothes of the Kidon–– those military issue Merrell boots to which Boots owed his nickname and the denim jacket of Bedouin. And of course the grey hooded jumper for Celeste.
But how easy is it to take off a jacket, to have a different shirt hidden under your other one?
Then there was the fact that two of the suspected Kidon were just that––suspected. Ethan didn’t much fancy being the guy who, while watching for two imagined hitmen, was murdered by the real assassins who had snuck up behind him. Good thing his back was against the wall.
Backed against the wall... he thought, bitterly. Fuck this secret squirrel bullshit. Give me an outpost to assault or a convoy to hijack any day.
“Mr. Ethan?” Kiana said, tugging at his sleeve.
“Just Ethan,” he replied. “And what?”
“As a scientist I deal with numbers mostly,” she said. “The world is made of numbers if you only know how to look at it. Through numbers I can make sense of it.”
“Okay,” Ethan said, not taking his eyes from the milling humanity. “Your point?”
“Perhaps you would not mind telling me, but how would you quantify our chances of getting to the States alive?”
“I think,” Ethan replied, “that you might be getting a little ahead of yourself, Doctor. How about we concentrate on getting out of this airport alive first, huh?”
Kiana nodded and swallowed nervously. “Yes. You are right. How might you hazard our chances getting out of here, then––as a percentage?”
“Well, Dr. Avesta, as a former soldier, I have to tell you it has been a rare day I’ve been able to say with any real conviction I could make sense of the world in any way whatsoever.” Ethan looked down into the guileless face of the Iranian scientist, saw the worry and fear in the depths of those incredible jade eyes.
God, she’s just an idealist––a good person, he thought. He realized just how few of those sort of people he ever met. You can still see the little kid who wanted to change the world for the better down there in the depths of her eyes. She doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t deserve to be cut down in the street or a hotel room.
He quickly returned his attention to the passersby. “Let’s just say that, back when I first started out in this soldiering game, we would have called this situation... this entire global situation, I suppose, a shi—a soup sandwich.”
Kiana looked at him, her smooth brow wrinkling in a very pretty and distracting fashion. “Soup sandwich?” she asked. “I do not think I understand this reference.”
Ethan, despite everything, couldn’t help but smile behind his mask, though she wouldn’t see it. He wondered if sometimes you could be so smart that you missed the obvious. “A soup sandwich means a hell of a mess.”
Kiana, catching his drift, grinned determinedly up at him.
Ethan patted her shoulder awkwardly. He’d always found this sort of talk difficult. “You’ll be okay,” he told her. “The three of us are good at what we do.”
“Fighting?” Kiana asked.
“Surviving,” Ethan replied, returning his gaze to the thin crowds.
William and Bretta emerged through the arrivals doors a second later and Ethan attracted them with a subtle wave.
“Any sign of the Kidon?” Bretta asked without preamble.
Ethan shook his head. “Nothing.”
Bretta’s lip curled in annoyance. “Coming through customs I lost that guy in the polo shirt.”
“No issues with the agent?” Ethan asked.
“Nah,” William replied, staring out over the crowd, his gaze fixed on the exit to the taxi line about forty meters away. “Guy let us through after I told him we just got hitched and I’d have to order a couple crates of beer delivered to get me through the fourteen-day quarantine with her.”
Bretta snorted. “You’re full of it, Hest,” she said.
“All right, there’s nothing to be gained by just standing here,” Ethan said. “We need to get to the destination.” They all knew that they couldn’t allow themselves to be followed, considering the hotel wasn’t a safehouse in the conventional sense. It was simply a place where they could lie low for as long as needed. It wasn’t a fortress.
“Any news on the company car Sam is furnishing us with?” William asked.
“A company car?” Kiana said, perking up at this bit of news. “Like one of those bulletproof cars with the flags on the front?”
Bretta actually barked a laugh at this and shook her head disbelievingly at the other woman.
“Jesus, that’d be the day,” William said, scanning the terminal.
“More like an unofficial car,” Ethan said to her. “Registered to a front company that operates out of an empty office somewhere.”
“Chauffeured or are we driving ourselves?” Bretta asked.
“I requested someone... told her that we’d probably be coming out hot,” Ethan said.
“You never answered my question on any news?” William asked.
“Sam said one is on the way,” Ethan replied.
“Shit,” Bretta said, not quite under her breath. “So not here yet.”
“It will be here...” Ethan said, with more confidence than he felt.
“How far is this hotel?” Kiana asked.
“A twenty-minute drive,” Ethan said. “Smack in the middle of town according to the satellite photos. We’ll have to lose the Kidon team on the way.”
Kiana looked dubious, but held her tongue and looked towards the exit. Ethan could tell she was mentally steeling herself. This would probably be the longest walk she had ever taken.
And I don’t even know if the car will be in time, Ethan thought.
“Best get this over with,” he said. “Dr. Avesta, walk between us. Hest, you’re on point. Bretta and I will take the flanks.”
William squared his broad shoulders. “Gotta love being the bullet-catcher.”
They walked fast through the bustle of the terminal, and constantly gazed from side to side, looking for anything that might signal some sort of attack. They made it to the automatic doors and passed through, heading in the direction of the taxi line and, beyond it, to where private pickups could be made.
“Anyone see anything?” Ethan asked, checking the rear.
“Negative,” William said.
“Negative,” Bretta said.
Ethan could hear Kiana’s breath rasping behind her mask. The panicked panting of someone on the verge of hysteria. Ethan looked her in the eyes. “If you black out from hyperventilating, it’s not going to help anyone.”
She nodded slowly, and she managed to calm her breathing somewhat.
Ethan continued to keep an eye out. There was no sign of any of Boots or Bedouin. Or Celeste. While he concentrated on visual cues––the clothing they had been wearing, the Bedouin’s hooked nose, the broadness of Boots––he had a feeling Bretta would be able to pick out Celeste merely by the way she moved, and the way she walked.
They hustled past the taxi line. Seeing people adhering so strictly to the one-and-a-half-meter rule here, in a city that was famed the world over for the vibrancy and passion of its locals, felt very strange. Although he had never set foot in Barcelona before, the city’s name had always conjured mental images of men and women who wore their hearts on their sleeves; loud, chatty and full of life. What he saw were taxi drivers gloved and masked in much the same way as everyone else, hurrying travelers being bundled straight into the cars of waiting friends and family members and stern-faced police officers patrolling the terminal sidewalks urging people to be on their way.
It was then that, throwing a casual but penetrating glance over his shoulder, he saw Boots stomping through the thin crowd behind him. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his cargo pants. Where the man had been the epitome of the dreamy, bored traveler before, he now walked with a real purpose; a predator on the trail of his quarry. His heavy brows were contracted in a sl
ight frown of concentration over his surgical mask.
“Got one on our six,” Ethan announced.
At the same time, from the other side of the hurrying scientist, Bretta said: “Shit. Celeste. Three o’clock.”
The woman who had confronted Bretta on the plane strode deliberately along the other side of the road from them, mirroring their path as she skirted the side of the terminal building. Her sunglasses were in place above her mask, effectively totally disguising her. Like Boots, she had her hands stuffed into the front pocket of her hooded sweatshirt.
Weapons. Ethan’s brain automatically supplied. They must have received a drop-off.
Something about the whole scenario bothered him, but he didn’t have the time to address his unease.
His team continued past the taxi line. They walked along the central pedestrian lane that divided the incoming airport traffic in the Passenger Loading Zone; the vehicles on their right, closest to the terminal, were made up of taxis and black executive cars, while on their left resided the more eclectic traffic of people arriving to pick up relations and friends. Just as the plane and the airport had been, the vehicle traffic proved sparser too.
“Nine o’clock,” William announced.
Slightly behind them, on the far side of the road, Bedouin was strolling along. He was unmasked and there was a slight, predatory smile playing about his lips. His eyes were fixed in Ethan’s direction.
“Where’s our vehicle?” Bretta asked.
“Not here yet,” Ethan replied, unable to hide the frustration in his voice.
Inexplicably, the three pursuers slackened their pace and dropped back.
Ethan frowned. “Pull up here.”
They ducked into the relative shelter of a large bus stop. The Aerobus service transport had just pulled out, taking with it the latest batch of city-bound travelers.
Ethan pulled Kiana roughly into the corner of the steel and glass structure, so that she was partially hidden beside a side wall covered in a huge sign advertising hair conditioner. He had William stand behind her, shielding her with his body in front of the glass window.
Ethan glanced across the road. Bedouin was lingering on the far side, making a show of struggling with a cigarette lighter. Behind them, Boots was looking at a bus timetable. Through the rear glass wall of the bus stop, Ethan could see that Celeste was talking into a mobile phone.
“The hell they up to…?” William muttered to himself.
Ethan kept an eye on Boots who, as the only Kidon suspect on the same stretch of pavement as them, he considered to be the chief threat. At the periphery of his vision a blur of motion drew Ethan’s attention to a navy Audi A6, which pulled sharply into a free space in the Passenger Loading Zone, thirty meters or so down from Ethan’s team.
“That ours?” William asked.
Ethan shook his head. “Nope.”
Come on, Sam. Don’t leave us hanging in the breeze with these guys.
Kiana was fumbling with a fountain pen in one hand. The fine black and gold Parker was clasped tight, her knuckles white against the plastic. With her thumb and forefinger, she would pop off the lid and snap it back into place. Ethan had noticed her doing it on the plane while they had been waiting to take off from Istanbul.
Pop, snap. Pop, snap. Pop, snap. Pop––
She dropped the fountain pen. Ducked quickly to retrieve it.
The rear wall of the bus stop shattered. There was an infinitesimal moment where the plate glass suddenly turned an opaque white, covered in countless tiny spiderwebs, then the whole pane cascaded downwards like a sheet of ice crystals.
The unexpected, devastating crashing noise stopped the hurrying foot-traffic in mid-stride. A few people let out gasps that might have passed for soft screams. The eyes of William, standing closest to the glass, were the epitome of shock.
In the immeasurable space of time in which life and death battle for supremacy along the knife edge of fate, Ethan took in Celeste, Bedouin and Boots all staring intently in their direction. And there was the Audi. The shiny new A6, the faint exhaust fumes telling of an engine that was idling.
The rear window, the one facing Ethan and his crew, was half wound down. Something glinted in the dark interior of the vehicle, catching the dying light of the Spanish sun.
“Move!” Ethan yelled, grabbing Kiana and almost throwing her ahead of him.
Without a word or a question, the team started to run.
14
As Ethan ran, half dragging and half guiding Kiana through the confused and milling pedestrians, his mind tried clicking the pieces of the puzzle into place.
It was apparent the fourth member of the Kidon had hot-footed it off the plane as fast as possible and retrieved a waiting vehicle––complete with some sort of compact rifle––while the other three Israelis herded Ethan and the team in his direction.
The four of them jogged down the road parallel to the terminal buildings. They dodged through the crowds, slipping through gaps when they could, hurdling baggage carts. Ethan kept a firm hold on Kiana’s hand, pulling her this way and that, his fingers gripping her so tight he was bound to leave bruises.
If all we have to worry about after this are a few bruises, I’ll call that a win.
Another quick shoulder glance informed Ethan the three Kidon members were all hurrying toward the Audi. He glimpsed a soft flash from the interior of the car. The unmistakable thrumming spang! came from nearby as a bullet ricocheted off something metal.
Ethan almost laughed at the confusion on the faces of the people he sped past. A couple of them looked around at the sound of the bullet deflecting, in the same way they might look up at the chiming of a clock. Ethan’s mind supplied the dry, suppressive sound of the gunshot. It was no surprise Ethan couldn’t hear the report of the suppressed weapon. Sourced from inside the confines of the car, it would be lost in the general bustle. He doubted a pedestrian standing next to the vehicle, with its tinted windows and engine running, would even recognize the gunshot for what it was even if they heard it.
A plastic garbage bin sprang a leak next to him, and trash sprayed across the pavement; candy and chip packets skittering happily away in the slight breeze, empty coke cans spinning away.
More astonished gasps of confusion from befuddled onlookers.
As Ethan yanked Kiana into the cover of a support pillar for a pedestrian bridge that spanned the roadways, he took note of the exit wound in the garbage receptacle; the small entry hole and massive exit hole were consistent with a hollow-point round.
“Goddamn, these boys and girls ain’t messin’ about,” William said from behind him.
It was the unfamiliarity of the situation—fleeing without even having the option to return fire—that really bothered Ethan. People trying to gun him down he could handle, but being unable to defend himself was something that didn’t sit well with him.
His gears in his mind revolved frantically. He peered past the far side of the pillar. They were nearing the end of the Passenger Loading Zone. Cars accelerated past, heading up Aeroport Avenue to join up with the C-32B access road. Once his team was away from the terminal buildings they’d be little better than fish in a barrel.
He could hijack a car. That would bring heat of a different sort down on them, of course, what with the increased police presence, but when the alternative was being shot down in the street in cold blood any other option was a good one.
We could make a dash for the terminal, he thought. Hole up there until Sam’s car arrives.
But what if it didn’t come? Eventually they would be ejected by airport security for loitering, or arrested when a not-so-anonymous tip from the Kidon found its way to local police. If the team was arrested, then there would be nothing Ethan could say or do to stop him and Kiana from being separated.
And, like a fish getting picked out from the shoal, as soon as she is on her own it won’t be long before those Israeli sharks have bloodied the water.
“Talk to me,” E
than told William. “Status on the pursuers.” There was a Hertz car rental agency a couple of hundred meters up the road. The ground was flat concrete and as open as it came, without a pebble to take cover behind––a marksman’s dream––but if they could make it to that agency…
“No foot pursuit, but I can see the car,” William replied. “Looks to me like the bastards are goin’ to head up this way. We ain’t got long.”
Bretta took in a deep lungful of air. “If we hustle we can make terminal two. Maybe.”
The way that she said “maybe” told Ethan all he needed to know about how low she thought their chances were. But making a run for it seemed the best option right about now.
“Let’s go!” Ethan ordered.
He led the way once more, and the four of them sprinted back towards the main, squatting mass of the Josep Tarradellas Barcelona-El Prat Airport. He zigged and zagged as he led Kiana by the hand, and Bretta and William did the same.
Down the straight, slightly downhill road that was Aeroport Avenue, Ethan could see a traffic circle in the distance. The blue Audi had just exited the circle. There were a few clusters of people gathering around the fragmented remains of the bus stop. A family crossed the road just then, partially screening the Audi from view.
“Come on, come on,” Ethan chanted as he sprinted for terminal two. They were zigzagging down the median zone that separated the two lanes.
The Audi was coming fast now. Ethan knew the A6 had a three-liter V6 petrol engine under the hood and––judging by the way the car swerved hard up onto the curb to overtake a trundling Citroen––it looked as if the driver knew precisely how to utilize it.
We’re not going to make it.
The car swerved past the family and closed. The broad head and shoulders of Boots emerged from a back window. His arms were still inside the car, but it didn’t take too much imagination to form a mental image of what he was holding.
Boiling Point (An Ethan Galaal Thriller Book 4) Page 12
