Johnson pulled his weapon, lowering it to his lap while his eyes scanned the street ahead. “All I’ve been told is to take you to the location that we planned as soon as possible. You will be in protective custody. I’ve been instructed to tell you that no one will file charges for your break-in if you tell investigators what you know, and fast. We don’t have time to negotiate.”
“Small favors.”
The Chicago Midway International Airport came into view. The noise of a jet landing rumbled the inside of the van. Mike saw several jets pointed at the terminals. I wish I could fly away.
Bugs slowed the van and turned left off Cicero onto West 59th Street.
The van swerved to the left and back to the right around the built-in curve in the road. The road darkened and became secluded. There was nothing but parked cars in lots. The top half of Mike’s body moved in sync with the van. The bottom half, secured by the tie straps, immobile. The shifts caused another bout of pain.
They slowed to cross a set of railroad tracks.
Sokol leaned forward, lowered his binoculars and put his hand on Erik’s arm. “Make, model and number. That’s them. Natalya--”
She lowered her window. “Target acquired.”
The passenger windows shattered to the sound of gunfire. Mike turned his head, closing his eyes. When he opened them, light beamed through a hole in the van’s side.
A blood splatter decorated the windshield. Agent Johnson grabbed his neck to stem the bleeding and shouted at Bugs. “Floor it!”
Instead of hitting the accelerator as he expected Bugs to do, Mike watched Bugs slam his shoulder into the door, open it, and roll out of the van. The van leaped forward.
Mike struggled to crouch down in his restraints, preparing for impact. Shit, he must’ve used the gas pedal for leverage when he jumped.
More bullet holes appeared. The accelerating driver-less van careened to one side before toppling, sliding across the street. The van scrapes the road, screaming its displeasure, until smashing into the curb. It came to an abrupt stop.
Silence.
Are we there yet? Mike waited to hear his parent’s breathing to draw to an end, for the cold rain to wash over them through the car’s wreckage. It’s not your fault, Mikey.
He shook away the memories.
Another hail of gunfire shattered the van’s windshield.
Mike looked at his hands, a few seconds later it dawned on him that they were in front of him rather than tied behind his back; the restraints had broken in the crash, leaving deep red rings and abraded skin where the straps had dug into his wrists before snapping. Thank you, Jesus!
Mike's eyes danced around the van. The others weren’t so lucky. Mike saw one agent’s leg bent at an unnatural angle.
The man screamed.
Mike clamped his hands over his ears to think.
The newly shattered passenger window had knocked Agent Johnson unconscious or dead. The two pool player agents managed to crawl through the open windshield of the van and were mowed down.
The Hooker, the last agent standing, crawled out of the side door window. She pulled her service weapon and aimed at the car that had fired on them. She got a few shots off. The handgun’s explosions echoed in the van.
A new hail of gunfire pelted the van and the agent, sending her spinning onto the sidewalk, one arm shorn away, blood squirting in every direction. The full-autos aimed at the van spoke death, and bullets were their words.
Beams of light crisscrossed the interior of the van at different angles when more bullets streamed into it.
Dazed, Mike tried to determine which direction was up in the overturned van and crawled out the back door that now hung loosely on its hinges.
He spotted his cane near a gutter. He grabbed it and tucked it behind his back, sliding it between his sweater and jacket to secure it in place.
The hell with this, I’m out of here. He scrambled on his hands and knees, ignoring the pain in his back while putting distance between himself and the bullets pelting the van.
He found refuge in the shadow of a large four-wheel-drive truck, crawling under one of its massive wheels, then glanced back to see three people, two men, and one woman, approach the van. The taller of the two men tossed something into the van and gestured for the others to step back.
The van exploded. Flames leaped in the air, melting the surrounding snow.
Distant sirens filled the air. Mike watched the shorter male gunman scan his surroundings, preparing to leave. Mike recoiled from the heat from the van fire. Distant sirens grew closer.
I know that asshole. Where have I seen him before?
The shorter man pointed to the burning van. “Was he in there?”
The large gunman nodded. “I found a corpse near the middle seat. He was apparently cuffed.”
The female gunman kicked the body of the agent she had gunned down on the sidewalk. “We should go, Sokol.”
That bitch with the machine gun is Candie! What the hell? Candie! And that guy she just called Sokol, that’s Agent Townsend!
Sokol/Townsend walked closer to one of the other agents crawling away on the side of the street. “To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.” He held a silenced pistol to the man’s head and pulled the trigger.
At a leisurely pace, hips swaying, Candie approached Bugs and kissed him on the lips. Mike remembered the taste of those lips. She stepped back and her hand flashed across the front of Bug’s throat. A glint of steel sparkled on the down stroke. Bug’s grabbed his neck and fell to the ground without making a sound.
CHAPTER 23
Reunion
Disheveled, cold, and rattled, his head felt about to explode, Mike rolled away to see Sokol and Candie, whatever her name was, pile into their car, the linebacker size sidekick got in the driver’s side door. The driver threw mud and snow during a three-point pivot and took off.
Mike’s chest hurt, his ass hurt, his belt hurt, the tightness of his boot strings hurt. The worse was his damn arm.
He raised his arm to brush his snow-laden clothes, and his arm trembled. He the pain was intense and easy to ignore with the adrenalin and fear suppressing it. There was no evading it now, the pain bitch slapped him.
He shrugged his shoulder and twisted his left arm to see the source: two holes in his jacket. He lowered his coat and checked his sweater sleeve. A one-inch gash where a bullet grazed him leaked blood. Not fast, but the blood stained his clothes. The blood was deep red. Good, likely not an artery. Mike understood bright red blood would have meant death.
A cluster of dissimilar sirens closing in intruded on his thoughts. Mike twisted and turned in every direction to get his bearings. Shit, no time! Reaching back, he secured the hook of his cane on the collar of his jacket. He put the butt of the cane underneath his belt and tightened it. The cane pushed against his back, secure. I’m going to need this later.
He hovered in the shadow the wheel. A slow-moving train clanked toward him. He applied his survival training. He stopped and took a few deep breaths. Assessed his situation. Considered his options. Surrendering himself to law enforcement, was not one of them. The train doesn’t have an end car. No caboose, no extra pair of eyes. Good. Going south out of the city. I can do this. I did it when I was young. How hard can it be now? Fifteen years older, shot up, bad back. No problem.
He spotted a graffiti-afflicted freight car. Perfect. He shot from underneath the truck and fell flat on his face. Ouch! That really fucking hurt!
He scrambled to his feet and proceeded a little more gingerly. His luck held, and he did not fall. Reassured, he widened his stride and picked up speed.
The train crept along the tracks gaining momentum, Mike struggled to keep pace. He leaped for a ladder welded to the side of the boxcar. He gripped it with both hands. His bloodied left hand did not cooperate. A stab of pain caused him to lose his grip. He dangled by his remaining arm before righting himself.
Once secure, he saw the flaming van fade in the dis
tance. The emergency vehicles arrived, their lights brightening the sky, sirens gave warning.
Relief slammed home. He wished for time to pass before anyone realized he was not among the dead. With every clank of the train’s wheels, the sirens dwindled, and the lighted sky faded.
Better do something about my damn arm. Mike entwined his unhurt arm inside a rung of the ladder and made sure his feet were secure on the small metal ledge.
He recalled his first aid. The wound was not gushing blood, but shock was a real possibility if he kept bleeding. Mike understood his limits, his superb physical condition would only take him so far.
Mike moved as slow as could with his bad arm and latched onto the cane. He hooked the cane on a metal loop on the side of the train car. “Shit, shit, shit!”
He partially unzipped his jacket and freed one arm at a time. Coiling both jacket arms sleeves around the cane, he secured his perch. His feet slipped on the edge several times, but he managed it.
With his uninjured arm freed, he slid his hand inside his shirt and latched onto his tee shirt. He yanked, hard.
A large chunk of the t-shirt ripped free. His neck burned where the collar tore with reluctance. The chunk of t-shirt in his hand read, “Dude, your security sucks.”
Folding his shirt into a makeshift bandage, Mike wrapped the material around his wounded arm and freed his belt from his waist. He awkwardly wrapped and looped the belt to hold the bandage in place. The belt provided a decent amount of direct pressure. This better work, damn, it stings! And I’m cold.
He struggled to get his jacket on and the cane secured to his back. Every jostle of the train sent ripples of pain through his shoulder, back, and neck. His fingers were losing strength.
The train slowed for a major intersection.
Time to get off. Mike saw a big pile of plowed snow next to the road and prayed it was not a pile of scrap metal, or something sharp was hidden underneath it. He leaped off the train.
His body sunk deep in a cloud of fresh mushy snow.
He stumbled to his feet. The wet snow clung to his body. Mike hurt too much to bother brushing it off. He got his bearings from a street sign: Seventy-ninth and Central Park.
He shuffled toward a nearby auto parts store, staggering inside. The clerk did not seem impressed at his appearance and followed his every move.
Mike grabbed three energy bars off a display case and paid the clerk. He nibbled hoping for a surge of energy to run through his body. It did not. He felt faint.
I need to call someone for help. Mike reached into his pocket and laid a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Can I use your phone, buddy?” He pointed to the one next to the battery tester.
“I’m not your buddy, buddy.” The worker snatched the money and walked to the phone, held the five-dollar bill in the light and flipped the dial toward Mike. “Okay, I’m your buddy. Five minutes.”
Mike went through his short list of friends and crossed them out immediately. He had two choices, and one was no good. Eddie was in another state and explaining to him that he broke into their locked bedroom would not put his brother’s wife in a good mood.
He thought of his one last hope. He freed the number from the prison of a hidden recess in his wallet and dialed.
A female voice answered. “Hello?”
“Kim. Glad you’re home. It’s Mike.”
“You’re lucky, I usually don’t pick up if I don’t recognize the number.”
“Yeah, I’m using the phone in a car parts store. Remember when you offered to help me, no matter what, at my parole hearing?” He filled his lungs and exhaled. “Can you pick me up?”
“It’s late, can’t Eddie?”
“He’s holed up in Pennsylvania.” Mike felt a drop of blood dot the floor. “Look, I’m trying my best not to show the guy at the end of the counter that I’ve been shot in the arm.”
“Call a damn ambulance, don’t waste time talking to me!”
Mike covered the mouthpiece and glanced at the shop employee who had wandered down an aisle to stock merchandise. “I’m not calling an ambulance. Look, I know who attacked Chicago. I contacted the FBI, they picked me up in a van, the van got shot to shit. They’re all dead.” His voice shook. “They got a mole in the department. I need time to think, I been falsely accused before.”
“No shit Sherlock, I know, I was part of that.”
“There’s a map. I’ve seen it. It is where the terrorist will strike next. You’ve got to get me to New York. I can’t trust the FBI.”” Mike waited for a response. None came. “Kim?”
“Where are you?”
“Seventy-ninth and Central Avenue. The auto parts store. I’ll be outside resting my eyes when you get here.”
“Don’t move. Sit down if you start feeling dizzy. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. We’ll figure out something.”
Mike slipped the attendant another Lincoln and asked if he could hide the corner until his friend picked him up.
Kim was a tornado. First, she grabbed her well-stocked first-aid kit. With the kit in hand, she picked her shoulder-holstered gun from her dresser and ran to the garage and jumped into her Focus RS. The three hundred and fifty horses roared to life.
Twelve minutes into the fifteen-minute trip, she arrived, pulled into the auto store’s tiny parking lot, navigating around a yellow guard rail, and ran inside, past the store clerk.
“Need anything, lady?”
She found Mike asleep at the far corner of the store. “Nope, I’m here to help this guy.”
The store clerk picked up the phone. “Should I call an ambulance?”
“No. We’ll be out in a moment, appreciate the concern, but I got it. Sorry for the mess.” She saw the spots of blood on Mike’s jacket, his cane, the bullet wounds in his arm, and opened her kit. “I’m taping gauze around your bandage.” She wrapped the gauze around the outside of the jacket. Hoping the jacket would become part of the bandage.
Mike groaned when Kim applied pressure. “They didn’t hit the bone, but that still hurts like hell.”
“Can’t imagine it’s a walk in the park. Here’s your cane. Let me help you up and don’t use that arm.”
When she got close to the counter, she threw a twenty down. “For the mess.”
She strained to shove the weakened Mike into her car. She squeezed into the driver’s seat and pulled away from the store. “Talk, Mike.”
Mike opened one eye, his hand fiddling with the bandages. “I contacted the FBI. Don’t ask how. They picked me up in a van…but they found out too late someone inside the FBI ratted them out. Someone in the Washington FBI office knew about me. Let that sink in.” Mike paused to give her time to think. “Van got…blown to hell. All the agents inside are all dead. Get this. Remember the fake agents who got me stuck in prison?” Mike waited for Kim to nod yes. “The main one was there. Heard someone call him Sokol.” Mike determined that telling her about the hooker/henchman Candie wasn’t the best idea. “They did it. Not some group in Russia like the news is reporting…this Sokol guy. I know it.”
Kim slid up to a light and took a moment to inspect her handiwork. No blood. “What’s this bit you said about going to New York?”
“Next target.”
“I hardly think chasing after people who enjoy shooting and blowing up vans is a bright idea.” The light flicked green, and Kim shot forward again.
“I don’t know who I can trust now. I figure we get there, find out what’s about to happen and call the authorities to stop it. If I turn myself in now, they might pick another target and then no one can stop the attack.”
“I need to think about this, long and hard. No promises.”
“Shit, every damn person I talk to wants to kill me or lock me up.”
“I know a few people who don’t want to do that.” She pulled into her driveway, slid out of her car, and went around to Mike’s side, helping him.
Inside, she laid him down on her black vinyl couch. She cut her bandage away and to
ok Mike’s jacket off and draped it over a kitchen chair. “You are one lucky SOB not to have a bone or artery shot. Or to get blood on my carpet.”
“What? I’m not dead? Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“Not again. Give it a rest. Let me cut these clothes off you and clean you up.”
“Sexy.”
She punched him on his good shoulder, then got up to her desk and retrieved a pair of scissors, cutting off what was left of his shirt. Her fingers lightly caressed the muscles of his chest. She thought the scars made him look like a bad ass warrior. “You’re in good shape, nice.”
“Cold hands, cold hands.”
Kim's lips curved up. “Sorry.” Hydrogen peroxide bubbled when she drowned the bullet wound. “This should keep it clean. Keep your arm still, I’m applying a skin adhesive. We’ll have to get you cleaned up and take a shower. Try to keep your arm out of the shower if you can.”
“You’re going to help me with that, right?”
“Nice try. Rest for a moment.”
“Yes sir, I mean ma’am.”
CHAPTER 24
Knock Knock
Melanie Holmes stood in Adeline Kaufman’s office, tapping her fingers against her leg while the older woman finished writing something. Melanie eventually barged in. “Del, forensics came back. Mike O’Connor was not in the wreckage. How did the guys in the basement come to that conclusion so fast? It was a complete meat puzzle out there.” Melanie knew to call her Del if she wanted to keep off her shit list.
“Sit, agent.” Del raised her head. “I personally inserted an ID chip into Mike O’Connor’s wrist when he left prison. None of the bodies we retrieved had chips. As a safety precaution, I had the boys in the basement list O’Connor as dead. Mel, we had one mole in the DC office. I have no idea if we have a second, maybe even one here. You can bet our medical examiners will say what I want them to say.”
“So the terrorists nabbed him.”
I Will Not Yield Page 16
