Zero Zero (An Agent Zero Spy Thriller—Book #11)

by Jack Mars

  “Strategic alliances? The man is a criminal!” Zero argued.

  “So is half of Washington!” Shaw countered. “Grow up. This isn’t high school. This is how the world works. Bright has resources that are occasionally loaned to the CIA, and in return, he gets some preferential treatment. Some looking the other way. It’s happened a thousand times before. Murderers, politicians, the mafia… we make deals all the time. Hell, just look at the people that our own president is trying to make peace with right now. We’ve armed or bombed just about all of them in the last twenty years.”

  “That’s different.” Zero shook his head. “I know what these men have done. What they can do. I don’t need to remind you that I was the one that brought in Mr. Shade.”

  ‘Yes,” Shaw agreed quietly, “you were. And if Mr. Bright were here, I’m sure he’d thank you himself.”

  Zero frowned at that. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you see? There’s a reason Shade is a permanent resident of H-6 and Bright isn’t.”

  There were few things Zero knew about the figure that went by the nom de guerre Mr. Bright. He knew that he funded terrorist cells all over the world. He knew he was a war profiteer, and now that he was apparently a CIA asset with his hands on the suppressor technology.

  He also knew that Bright was a master puppeteer. He’d been pulling Stefan Krauss’s strings for years without the assassin knowing it—and that was when Krauss still had his memories.

  And now, it seemed, he’d done the same to Zero. If Shaw’s vague remark was to be believed, Bright wanted his “business partner” gone, and Zero had taken care of it for him.

  If there was one thing he didn’t need, it was another thing in common with Stefan Krauss.

  “I don’t believe you,” he murmured. “But it doesn’t matter. If Bright’s behind this, he will go down for it. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Shaw replied with a short scoff. “It’s not like we do lunch. I’ve never met him, no idea what he looks like. He could be a she, for all I know.”

  “He is a he,” said Mischa. “And he is headquartered in New York.”

  Shaw scoffed. “How would you know?”

  “I spoke to him once,” she said simply. “I’ll find him again.”

  “Please. You have no way of knowing it was actually him. Even if you found him, you’d be dead before you got within a hundred yards of him,” Shaw said. “We’ve tried. He wasn’t always on our good side.”

  “So you’re saying he’s harder to get to than a CIA director?” Alan mused.

  Shaw glared.

  But Zero was barely listening. He was thinking. Even if he was an asset, even if the CIA looked the other way on Bright’s “dealings,” there was simply no reason to give him something like the memory suppressor—unless it had been a trade, and it would have to be something significant they got in return.

  “What did he give you?” Zero demanded.

  “What?” Shaw frowned.

  “You gave Bright the suppressor. So you must have needed something from him. Something you couldn’t do yourselves. Something that couldn’t be linked back to the CIA in any way…” It dawned on him then, as he worked it out aloud. “You needed him to get rid of anyone connected to the memory program. In return for the tech, he’d make sure no one knew it ever existed.”

  Including the thieves from four years earlier. Him and Reidigger.

  Whoever had killed Guyer—Krauss or Bright’s people—they knew it now. They knew about Zero and Reidigger being a part of it. But had they shared that with the CIA? If they hadn’t, Zero had just showed Shaw their full hand.

  “Is that what it was?” Zero demanded. “Kill off anyone who knew?”

  The director shook his head. “I’m not saying another word.”

  “Mischa.” Zero nodded to her.

  “Wait!” Shaw cried, but her small hand was already grabbing for his ear. He tried to pull away but she held fast. The blade sang in the air. Zero looked away. The director howled.

  When he dared to look again, blood ran down the side of Shaw’s neck. His eyes were squeezed closed tightly, tears streaming from them as he breathed ragged breaths.

  Alan craned his neck for a peek. “Buck up, Shaw, she only took off about a quarter inch.”

  “Take more,” Zero said flatly.

  “Wait,” Shaw gasped. “It was a whistle… a whistleblower.”

  Whistleblower?

  “Someone was going to spill about the memory program?” he demanded. “Who?”

  “You… you know who.”

  He did. As soon as Shaw said it, he understood immediately. The one person he knew was involved but hadn’t yet considered. It wasn’t Guyer, or Bliss, or Dillard. Not anyone in EOT, past or present. Not John Watson, and certainly not Zero’s own daughters. It wasn’t Penny León.

  “Bixby.”

  The eccentric inventor and engineer who had served for years as the CIA’s R&D head. The man who had been mentor and father-figure to Penny. He’d been a friend to Zero, Alan, and Maria. He’d been on the lam ever since destroying the CIA supercomputer called OMNI. Zero had found him once, and Bixby had pointed him in the direction of Seth Connors. He’d vowed then that Zero would never find him again.

  Bixby would need damn good reason to poke his head out of the hole. Learning that the memory suppressor program was still ongoing would be a damn good reason.

  Which meant that Bixby was on the list of targets—if he was even still alive now.

  “Did they kill him yet?” Zero demanded. “Shaw, did they get to him?”

  The director shook his head. “No. Can’t find him.”

  “We have to go,” Zero said to Alan and Mischa. “Let’s get out of here. Leave him, let them find him like this. He can’t prove anything.”

  “Wait,” Shaw said. “There’s one more thing you should know.”

  Zero frowned. “What is it?”

  Shaw gingerly touched his mangled ear and winced. “I wouldn’t be telling you any of this… if I thought for a second you’d leave here alive.”

  Mischa looked up suddenly, tensing. “I hear something. We’re not alone.”

  Alan hurried to the front windows, carefully tearing a small corner of the brown paper away. “Oh, shit.”

  Now Zero understood why Shaw had tried to stall, even under the threat of torture. And why he’d suddenly been so willing to talk. He was the paranoid director of the CIA.

  Just like Zero’s own daughters once had, Shaw had a tracking chip implanted in his shoulder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Zero rushed to the window and looked out through the thin hole that Alan had torn away. Two black cars had pulled into the parking lot, parking at angles in the empty lot a safe distance from the entrance, about twenty-five yards. Behind them, a black SWAT van rolled in, and a four-man team in full tactical gear jumped out.

  “He’s being tracked,” Zero murmured.

  “Four agents, four SWAT,” Alan noted. “More on the way, I’m sure.”

  He recognized one of the men who emerged from the black cars, a senior agent with a bald spot named Mulligan who had to be near retirement. They’d met only a few times in passing. Mulligan motioned with a hand and the SWAT team moved in single-file around the side of the building.

  “Is the back door secure?” Zero asked.

  “It’s locked, but it’s not all that sturdy,” Alan said. “A few good swings with a battering ram would knock it right off the hinges.”

  “They won’t try that; at least not right away. They don’t know who they’re dealing with or how many, and we have a hostage.”

  They also had only two handguns and a kitchen knife between them. But above all, these men were just doing their job. They were innocent in this; he refused to kill anyone over Shaw or his secrets.

  “Even with a hostage,” Alan said, “every minute we wait is another minute for reinforcements to show up. Any ideas?”

  “Yeah,”
Zero admitted. “Just one. But it’s crazy.”

  “When is it not?” Alan asked, and there was no jest in his tone.

  Zero marched back to Shaw. The director held his damaged ear but managed a smile. “I can hear the gears turning in your head,” he said snidely. “You can try to shoot your way out of this and they’ll shoot you dead. Or, you can give yourselves up. And if we can strike a deal about the nature of our conversation today, and how much it never happened, maybe you’ll find yourself in a nice cell with a cot and a toilet, instead of a hole at H-6.”

  “I have another idea,” Zero told him. “One way or another, you’re walking out of here with me. If you do it on your own, and you admit the truth about what’s happening, no one else gets hurt today.”

  Shaw scoffed. “I don’t know if you noticed, but the only person who’s going to get hurt today is y—”

  Zero swung. His right fist connected with Shaw’s jaw. It was a solid, satisfying smack, even though it sent pain shooting through his hand and up his arm. The director’s head jerked, and his body tumbled backward, off the counter and crashing to the floor.

  He shook out his aching hand as he rushed around the counter to scoop up the unconscious director.

  “Zero,” Alan said slowly, “please tell me you’re not thinking of doing what I think you’re thinking of doing.”

  “What is he thinking of doing?” Mischa asked.

  Zero didn’t answer. He scooped up the limp Shaw, slinging one arm over his own shoulders, and hefted him with a grunt. He was heavier than he looked. “Find someplace to hide for a minute,” he told Mischa. “A closet or something. Come out when you hear the signal.”

  “What’s the signal?” she asked.

  “You’ll know it. And hey—no killing.”

  “But what if—”

  “No buts,” he said sternly. “No killing, young lady.”

  “Fine.” She stalked off to find a place to lie low.

  “You too,” Zero told Alan.

  He grunted. “I’m not hiding.”

  “Don’t think of it as hiding. Think of it as… finding cover.”

  Alan raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but can I remind you that a friend owns this building?”

  “Hope he’s insured.” Zero dragged Shaw with him to the front entrance. The glass doors were covered with the brown paper, and he couldn’t hear what might be going on outside at that moment. He had no idea what he was about to walk out to.

  But still he twisted the lock, and he pushed the sliding doors apart.

  He winced in the morning sun as he took a single step out into daylight.

  “Stop right there!” a stern voice shouted. The four agents had guns drawn, and on him, three of them partially hidden behind open car doors, except for Mulligan, who stood closest to the pharmacy.

  “Don’t shoot!” Zero shouted. “I’ve got him. I’ve got Shaw!”

  “…Zero?” The barrel of Mulligan’s pistol wavered. “Is that you?”

  “Help me with him!” Zero half-dragged the unconscious Shaw toward the cars as Mulligan holstered his gun and rushed forward.

  “Hostiles?” he asked as he reached Zero.

  “Gone,” Zero reported. “Out the back. I would’ve pursued, but he’s hurt.”

  Mulligan spoke quickly into a radio. “Hostiles escaped through the rear.”

  The radio crackled. “There’s no activity here, sir.”

  “Then do a sweep of the area!” Mulligan shouted. He took Shaw’s other arm and asked, “Zero, what the hell happened? How are you here? Thought you retired.”

  Zero flashed a grin. “Is that what they’re telling you?”

  “Should’ve known,” the senior agent muttered. Together they carried Shaw toward the two black cars. “Put your guns down!” Mulligan barked at the other three agents. “Don’t you know who this is? And someone call an ambulance!”

  They set Shaw down gently on the asphalt and leaned him against one of the cars. The director’s head lolled as Mulligan knelt to check him over. “Jesus. Look at his ear. What were they doing to him?”

  “Trying to get some information, I imagine,” Zero said. “I didn’t ask and they didn’t stick around to tell me.”

  “How many?”

  “Three of them, all male, in black. Possibly former Division, or at least they looked like it.”

  Shaw groaned slightly and tried to keep his head straight. Zero tensed; he wasn’t sure if he’d hit him hard enough to break his jaw, and if he hadn’t, Shaw was moments away from talking.

  “You three, sweep the inside,” Mulligan ordered the younger agents. “Find me something that tells us who or why they did this.” As the three agents pushed forward toward the pharmacy the senior agent muttered to Zero, “They stick me with these kids. One of them’s younger than my son. You okay?”

  “I’m okay. Thanks.” Zero took a few steps backward, towards the SWAT van.

  Shaw groaned again, and tried to move his jaw.

  “Sir, just sit still, ambulance is on the way. Don’t try to speak; looks like your jaw might be cracked,” he heard Mulligan say.

  The radio crackled. “No sign of anyone,” said a voice. The SWAT team, he was sure. “Are we sure the inside is secure?”

  “My guys are on it,” Mulligan replied. No sooner did he say it than there was a shout, and two gunshots from inside the pharmacy. “What the hell—?”

  Zero jammed the stun baton between Mulligan’s ribs. Standard-issue for SWAT, easily accessible in an unguarded truck. Twelve million volts surged through the senior agent’s body. His mouth opened wide but silent. His body jerked, and then he slumped to the side.

  “Sorry,” Zero said quickly.

  Shaw stared up at him, eyes wide, making unintelligible grunts as he was unable to shout for help. He could have zapped him, but the director wasn’t a threat. And he still had to rescue his daughter and best friend.

  Zero jumped behind the wheel of the SWAT truck and started it up. He shifted into gear, pulled the wide steering wheel, and gunned the engine.

  Then he drove straight into the front doors of the pharmacy.

  They gave easily, like driving through paper, though the explosion of glass and twisting of steel was like a bomb going off. He saw someone leap out of the way, diving to the floor and covering their head; one of the young agents.

  Mischa was there in an instant, jumping into the open passenger door. “I take it that was the signal?” she said breathlessly.

  “Where’s Alan?”

  “Move over, I’m driving!” Reidigger climbed up to the driver’s seat as Zero scooted over, crouching between the two bucket seats as Alan shifted into reverse and slammed the gas. The truck lurched backward, groaning as it scraped the broken entranceway. Zero lurched a second time as the rear bumper smacked one of the CIA sedans.

  “Sorry, sorry!” Alan shifted again, and the truck shot forward. He twisted the wheel with a grunt. “Thing barely has power steering, for Christ’s sake…”

  Gunshots split the air and they ducked low. Bullets pounded the side of the truck but didn’t penetrate the siding as one of the agents fired at them from the vestibule. Zero clambered into the rear of the truck, where two long bench seats sat against either side of the truck, and an unlocked rack of weapons beckoned.

  Through the small square window at the back, he saw a SWAT member sprinting, trying to chase down the truck, but they’d reached the street and he was quickly growing smaller behind them.

  “So this was your big plan?” Alan shouted from the front. “Steal the second-most conspicuous vehicle possible and make our getaway?”

  “I wasn’t hearing any suggestions from you!” Zero shouted back. “Wait, what’s the first?”

  “The Wienermobile. Obviously.”

  “What’s a Wienermobile?” Mischa asked.

  Sirens blared behind them. Zero looked through the window again to find two police cars gaining quickly, no doubt en route
to the scene and now pursuing the stolen SWAT van.

  “Company!” he shouted. “Mischa, with me!”

  She climbed into the back as he reached for the rack. He took a Colt M4 carbine for himself, and handed her the smaller MP5 submachine gun.

  “Tires. Not people. Got it?”

  “Got it.” She expertly checked the magazine, pushed it back in, and cocked it.

  Zero shook his head; for just the briefest of moments he felt a pang of remorse for the girl. Maria had wanted nothing more than to give her a normal life. She should have been in school at that moment. She should be watching cartoons on the weekends and hanging with friends. Not kidnapping CIA directors and stealing SWAT vans.

  Mischa threw open one of the rear doors, crouched in a firing stance, and opened fire on the police cars behind them. Bullets bounced off of pavement and headlights shattered.

  “Keep it steady!” she shouted at Alan.

  “Sorry, this thing handles like a barge on wheels!”

  She fired another burst. One of her rounds found a home in rubber; a front tire exploded, shredding in an instant, and one of the cruisers fishtailed sideways.

  “I’m out, switch!” She stepped aside to reload as Zero stepped forward and brought the carbine to his shoulder. The kickback was powerful, and the gun roared like a lion, but the truck bounced and his shots went wild.

  “Intersection!” Alan warned. Zero reached up and grabbed onto a canvas loop hanging from the ceiling. The truck swerved. Tires screeched. Mischa’s feet left the ground for a moment, and Zero reached for her. He let go of the M4 and it slid out the open back of the truck, his free arm catching the girl around the waist.

  “Thanks,” she said tightly, seeming to realize how close she’d come to bouncing out instead of the gun. While Zero maintained his grip on her, she aimed again and fired another burst out the open back door.

  The MP5 pounded large holes in the hood of the police car. Smoke billowed from beneath it, and the distance between them grew as the cruiser lost power. Alan cut the wheel left and the truck leaned again. The last thing Zero saw of the second cruiser was orange flames erupting from the hood and the two officers inside leaping out.