by Seeley James
Pia looked at Tania. “Was he right? No satellite connection? Nothing uploaded to the cloud?”
“Nothing connected, and they crushed my phone just to make sure.”
“How did he know we were here?”
Tania bit her thumbnail while staring at the ground. “Nothing tracks this piece of rock. He didn’t follow Popov—that cagey old bastard never used a phone. Popov’s soldiers relayed everything. There’s no way they heard Popov say, ‘Attu Island’. Yuri Belenov used a system Bianca couldn’t trace. Gotta be a spy in Popov’s group.”
“CIA?”
“Or FSB. Or someone.” Tania pursed her lips and nodded. “Given his timing, I’d say Hunter and Roche wanted you to kill Viktor Popov today. You tied up a loose end for them.”
Pia turned to Jacob. “What was that thing you did with the lieutenant?”
“I asked him if he could arrange a weapons malfunction to end Watson’s miserable life. He gave it some serious thought. But he had too many new guys fresh out of boot camp in the platoon. You can’t jade them right off like that.”
“You have a plan B then?”
Jacob looked left, then right, then spoke in a barely audible whisper. “Later.”
CHAPTER 70
The pilot said we wouldn’t get into Sabel Satellite range to use our phones until we were near Hudson Bay. He went on about polar flight paths and other things that made my head hurt. I left the cockpit and tried sleeping on the divan in back. I didn’t fit. Dhanpal slept just fine curled up on the facing couch. Miguel stretched out on two facing seats farther forward.
I was twisting and turning, trying to get comfy when I noticed Ms. Sabel’s presence. Dhanpal woke up.
“Would you mind if I had a word with Jacob?” She gave him a nod toward the front.
Dhanpal grabbed his blanket and gave us the space.
She sat on the opposite sofa, crossed her legs and looked out the window, then at the floor. A troubled woman.
“Seeing recurring visions of Popov’s shattered head?” I asked.
“No.”
“Having regrets about the killing?”
“No.”
I waited until her gaze met mine. I raised my brows, leaving it for her to speak next.
“What’s the best way to kill David Watson?”
Whoa now. Mercury put his hands out as if pushing her away. That’s not a good ice-breaker for a Caesar, bro. She’s going straight into conspiracy to commit and pre-meditated. You gotta talk her off the ledge. Killing Watson is your job. You can walk right up to him and pop him. Broad daylight.
I said, I’d get caught. He’s a big deal in the government.
Mercury said, So? You do a few decades in the big house. No big deal. Your life sucks anyway. Vulcan will chill with you. He’s got nothing going on these days.
I shook my head. “A man like Watson needs to be put down worse than a rabid dog. I’ll take care of it.”
“He’s mine.” She drummed her fingers on the top of the sofa. “Killing Popov felt … good.”
No, no, no. Mercury spun away and put his forehead against the mahogany wall. You’ve got to talk some sense into her, homie. She’s going whacko on me. She could go on a killing spree that would make Diocletian look like a puppy.
I said, Who?
Mercury said, Oh, just an old emperor I talked into killing all the Christians and confiscating their stuff. Got my ass hauled in front of the galactic god council for that one. And back in those days, the Christians weren’t even rich. We didn’t make enough to pay the Legion. Total waste of time.
“You OK?” She tilted her head.
“Killing should never feel good.”
“I didn’t ask you to judge me.” She gave me a long cold glare. “I asked you to advise me. Popov’s dead. He left Roche in charge of our country. I’m going to take down Roche, one step at a time.”
And killing Watson was her next step because he was the triggerman in her parent’s murders and the traitor who told Strangelove how to snatch her. I blew out a long breath to ease my conscience. It didn’t work.
“Ever hear of Sun Tzu?” I leaned forward, trying to keep my voice down. “A Chinese general in the sixth century BCE. He said, ‘All warfare is based on deception; the supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.’”
“‘Let your plans be as dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.’ Dad made me re-read The Art of War every year. I find it relevant in both soccer and business.”
There was no talking her out of it. So, I gave her some hypothetical situations. I tried my best to make it sound impossible with all the surveillance cameras everywhere and the license plate readers and the response times for cops and the blood splatter nerds and the capacity of hospitals to save lives. She asked my theories about defeating those issues. I gave them to her reluctantly. The grilling went on for a long time. When she was satisfied, she thanked me and stood up and started back up the aisle.
“I forgot to tell you,” she said over her shoulder. “I invited Sylvia to the Gardens to thank her for the help. She should be there when we land.”
My heart attack commenced immediately, but Ms. Sabel never saw me dying because she’d already walked away.
Mercury laughed. ‘So daring in love, and so dauntless in war; Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?’ That would be Sir Walter Scott, homie; old pal of mine from way back when white dudes’ poetry was all the rage. Holy Luna, that was a long time ago. Your problem is: you ain’t no kind of Lochinvar. You’re scared shitless.
I said, Things ended badly last time we talked. Not the way I wanted it to go. I’ll have to apologize.
Mercury said, See that? That’s what I’m talking about, bro. That should be a warning sign right there. She should apologize to you. But that’s how the Greeks are; it’s all about them, all the time. Olympus this and Ares that. Hermes can suck my—
I said, Let it go.
I gave up all hope of trying to sleep and sat there staring out the window, dreaming up ideas for putting my best-ever relationship (probably) back on track. Nothing came to mind since we had a fundamental disagreement on whether killing people was OK. She didn’t think it was, but then, she’d never met some of the cretins I’ve run into. Plenty of people could be taken out, and no one would notice. Like the guy who cuts you off in traffic then flips you off. Or the mom who tells you her two-year-old is going to Harvard and has seven hundred pictures. Or the teenager who can’t take your order because she’s texting her friends.
Maybe those aren’t the best death penalty examples.
Was all the angst worth it? I started to wonder why I even liked her. I knew nothing of her intellectual capacity or if she read books or could live with Mercury. I had no idea if she was healthy or drunk or tidy. I didn’t know what kind of movies she liked.
But. She’s pretty.
Good enough.
When we landed, the ground crew had my Ferrari warmed up and waiting. Tania jumped in the passenger’s seat before I could say no. The others piled into one of Ms. Sabel’s limos. I drove through the freezing air of dusk with the top down, the heater cranked up. We arrived at Sabel Gardens, where Tania had left her car.
I planned to run home for a quick nap before meeting Sylvia. But she was standing on the grand staircase when I circled around to drop Tania.
Tania opened the door and spoke to her. “You haven’t figured out this guy’s a loser yet?”
Sylvia cocked a hip. “Says the woman riding in his hot car.”
“She’s clever,” Tania whispered over her shoulder at me. “This won’t last long.”
Sylvia slid right in when Tania stepped aside.
“I forgot to say something last time we parted. You saved my life. Thank you.” She gave me a kiss, then pulled back. “But you kill people. I don’t know what to do with that.”
I cupped her face and kissed her again.
Her nose crinkled. “Y
ou need a bath.”
We went straight to my place where she took a personal interest in the suds and the rinsing. Then we traded places. Before long the euphemism moved to the bedroom. My massage oil collection and candle selection made her giggle with anticipation. There are no substitutes for experienced hands in a situation of that kind. Unless one counts tongue tricks. Sylvia was satisfied twice before our dreamy romp came to a mutual conclusion.
It was the best afternoon of my entire life. The way she cuddled led me to believe she felt the same.
We stared at the ceiling.
“There’s something magical about you,” I said. “I’ve never felt such a magnetic attraction.”
She purred. “Same.”
Having never experienced a post-coital, single-word answer from a woman before, I sat up on an elbow and admired her cheekbones. “Call me crazy, but I feel like you’re an ancient soul.”
“I don’t want to fight this time.” She sat up and ran her fingertips along my jaw. “Let’s enjoy the moment and talk about the future. Tell me your vision. What does Jacob Stearne’s life look like in five years?”
“How about I tell you over a dozen oysters at the Old Angler’s Inn?”
We dressed and drove out to the restaurant nestled in the trees on MacArthur Boulevard. Built out of a nineteenth-century stone farmhouse, the rooms were converted to dining and drinking areas decades ago. Each room was small and romantic even when it was crowded.
“Five years from now,” I said after ordering wine, “Jacob Stearne is the luckiest guy in the world. He’s married to a goddess, has two kids, and a modest home in Bethesda.”
“A modest home—with a Ferrari parked out front?” she laughed.
“Yeah, well, that’s going up for sale next week. I can’t afford a flat tire much less the insurance.” We sipped our wine. “What about you?”
“I would be married to a sensible man.” She reached for my hand and held it. “One who believes in making love, not war.”
Mercury appeared tableside with a serviette over his forearm and bowed to my ear. That’s what I’m talking about, bro. She’s gotcha. Making you choose between love and war. Why not have both, like my boys did with the Sabine women?
I said, That’s so not acceptable in modern moral terms. Say. Could you give me a little privacy? This is a complex negotiation.
Mercury said, You negotiate me out of the picture, and I’m calling Ukko. He be putting lightning bolts in your mouth and out your ass for eternity. Feel me?
“I believe in making love and war.” I smiled.
She didn’t.
Not funny. Apparently.
“Well, someone has to keep the country safe.” I shrugged. “I’m a militant pacifist—I’m willing to fight for peace.”
“There’s an oxymoron without any oxy.”
A text came in just in time to save me from the daggers in her cold gaze. It was my insurance agent lamenting the fact that he couldn’t sell me insurance because the car was already insured. It was registered to the company, paid in full, and I was listed as the primary operator. A grin grew across my face. Ms. Sabel was covering the expenses. I could keep the Ferrari as my company car. I was leading a charmed life. A beautiful woman and a cool car. This was, without a doubt, the best day of my life. Ever.
Then I returned to Sylvia’s glare.
“Hey, you were that guy on TV, right?” A stranger stood next to our table pointing at me. “At the Sabel funeral, am I right?”
He was a veteran. I could tell by the way he carried himself. He had the confidence of a man carrying a sidearm and the knowledge of how and when to use it. And then there was the haircut. Dead giveaway. His smirking, almost angry attitude struck me as off-key.
“Yes, that was me.” I gave him my soldier stare. “Not to be rude, friend, but we’re having a private conversation here.”
“Wow, she’s gorgeous. Is she your girl?” He leered at her, leaning over and looking down her modest neckline.
I stood, put a hand on his chest and pushed him upright. “I take it you missed the manners sessions at boot camp.”
He was a short, wiry guy. He grabbed my wrist and tried to wrench it off. My arm was immobile.
“We’re watching you, Stearne.” He pushed up to my face. “You and your little bitch.”
He wrenched away and walked out of the room. I watched every step he took before sitting back down.
“I’m not a fan of toxic masculinity.” Sylvia reached for my hand again. “He’s an asshole, so what? I don’t like men fighting for my honor—or whatever macho thing this is.”
“I love honor more than I fear death.”
“Ugh.” Her nose crinkled. “That sounds so … Roman.”
“Julius Caesar.” My eyes remained glued to the exit. If that guy came back, I intended to rearrange his nose.
“Romans were all about violence, oppression, and war.”
Mercury stood behind her, pointing with an I-told-you-so face.
The guy stepped back into the room, holding his phone up. He snapped a couple pictures, his flash drawing everyone’s attention.
“America’s been running the world for two hundred years.” I stood and started for the door. “The Romans ran it for a thousand.” I got to the exit and called over my shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
The guy wasn’t in the next room or the bar. Then I heard the gasps of old ladies shocked about some impropriety or another. I circled back to the dining room to find Sylvia holding her napkin up in front of the guy’s phone while he flashed pictures. He saw me and ran out the back of the room.
I chased him through the bar and out into the parking lot. He jumped in the passenger seat of a Toyota and spewed gravel out onto MacArthur Boulevard.
My Ferrari was the perfect weapon for the occasion. I jumped in, fired up the bi-turbo V8, and blew gravel until the tires found bedrock below and shot the car forward like a cannonball. The 488 Spider accelerated down the empty road with enough velocity to scare the hell out of me. In three seconds, I’d blown through sixty mph and saw the Toyota’s taillights disappear around a bend in the lonely road.
I also saw Mercury flying horizontally next to me, the brass wings on his silver helmet flapping like a hummingbird’s. Dawg. You ever stop to think why some random guy would piss you off on purpose—then run like hell?
I looked at him instead of the road. Ambush?
He said, Or?
We negotiated a sweeping turn. Ahead was the Toyota. I was closing extremely fast.
I slammed on the brakes, scrubbing speed as the ABS furiously chirped the tires. When it got below fifteen, I rolled out and let the car accelerate away.
I stood up, feeling my fresh scrapes and bruises.
I looked at Mercury. They wanted me within range of their remote detonator.
Mercury touched his nose.
The explosion blew the treetops backward several feet before they recovered to upright. The shock wave knocked me back on the pavement.
I called Ms. Sabel. No answer. I texted her. “You’re in extreme danger.”
CHAPTER 71
Yuri stood on the balcony overlooking the long, sweeping curve of beach that made Santos a popular destination for Brazilians. Sheez Music by Dumpstaphunk filled the apartment with New Orleans funk. Below him, people bathed in the afternoon sun and cars paraded up the beachfront boulevard. He took a deep breath and considered the wisdom of what he was about to do. Some might think him crazy, but he considered it an honorable course of action.
His front door buzzed.
He opened it to find Roman in the hallway, shocked and breathless. The bandages encircling his ribs bulged beneath his knit shirt.
“I’m not going to apologize.” Yuri stepped back and waved Roman in.
Roman hesitated. Yuri shrugged, turned his back, and went to the living room. He pulled two glasses off the shelf, set them on the bar, and produced a bottle of Tovarich vodka and poured.
Roman came in like a wary cat, inching along the wall.
“Why didn’t you tell me they approached you?” Yuri took one glass and held the other out to Roman.
“What do you want?” Roman asked.
“Your help.”
They eyed each other for a silent minute. Roman took a step forward, then another until he reached the bar. He stared at the drink.
“Fine.” Yuri set the glass down. “Don’t drink. I’ll talk. When Strangelove stabbed me, it was because I had betrayed him. This is how I know your fury, resentment, humiliation. I lived through it myself. However, there is a fundamental difference between Strangelove and me. He did it to control me, to own me. What I did to you was in anger. It will remain a serious regret in my professional life. And even so, I know if the circumstance were repeated, I would do it again. I am a violent man.”
Roman picked up the glass and tasted the vodka. He eased onto a bar stool. “Why are you telling me this?”
“If you accept my proposal, you should know not to keep things from me.” Yuri drank. “It turned out OK, but you didn’t know them. You trusted an outsider. That was stupid.”
Roman regarded his former boss. He took another sip and didn’t respond.
“The other members of SHaRC are excited about regrouping.” Yuri waved around the room. “We’ve bought out the top half of this building for them. They’re on their way.”
Roman appeared to be thinking through which questions he should ask, or if he should ask any at all. His gaze took in the room until he spotted something on a bookshelf.
He pointed to a line of six antennae peeking above the books. “What’s that?”
“An MG-40 electronics jammer.” Yuri flicked open his switchblade and toyed with its weight. “4G, GSM, LTE, Bluetooth, WiFi—all signals blocked. My neighbors hate me right now.”
Roman watched the blade for a moment, then met Yuri’s gaze. They remained motionless and wordless. Yuri observed his lieutenant’s pulse rising on his neck. Fine beads of sweat broke out on the man’s forehead.
