The Janus Reprisal c-9

by Jamie Freveletti

  “How are you doing it?”

  Smith shook his head. “Trade secret. We need to go.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Issuing orders?” He nearly bit his tongue. She was right. Something about her brought out the military in him. He was acting like a drill sergeant with a particularly recalcitrant recruit. And it was the exact wrong way to deal with her. He took a deep breath and went for honesty.

  “Sorry. Absolutely not. I’ve learned how useless orders can be when dealing with you. It was a suggestion only.” His phone began vibrating in his pocket and he answered when he saw that it was Marty.

  “Get out of there, now,” Marty said. “Someone’s accessing her tablet GPS just like I am, but they’re relaying the coordinates to an untraceable prepaid phone. And these hackers are the best.”

  “Who is it?” Smith said.

  “The CIA.”

  27

  We’ve got to leave. Now,” Smith said. Nolan stopped drinking her coffee mid-sip. She swallowed.

  “Why? What just happened?”

  He hesitated. Normally he’d just try to muscle his way through giving vague responses and assuming that most people would recognize his expertise and take his direction. But Nolan had already proven immune to good advice.

  “The group at the hotel is getting information about our location from…a hacker. I give it ten minutes, no more, and they’ll be here. Power down your tablet and cell phone.”

  Nolan put the coffee cup down with a thunk. Her face had turned pale, which was one of the first times that he’d seen her react to the circumstances in an appropriate way. Perhaps she was learning the extent of the precarious position that she was in. Her eyes narrowed.

  Well, that’s not a good sign, Smith thought.

  “Call Ms. Russell’s superior. They must have other safe houses we can use.”

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Why not?” Nolan said.

  Smith eyed the man with the backpack next to them and the crowd in the aisles. From somewhere in the bowels of the store he heard the shrill laughter of a woman who was on her way to being drunk, and the air was filled with the sound of voices in conversation intermingled with the clinking of glasses, creating a cacophony. From the coffee bar came the noise of milk being steamed; the smell of coffee beans being ground wafted in Smith’s direction. Background music overlaid it all. Smith wasn’t going to hear the assassin approach; that much was clear. He would have to rely on spotting him before he was able to aim. Smith kept his gaze roaming around the room. His phone vibrated. It was Marty.

  “Why are you still there?” he said.

  “Just leaving.”

  “If it is someone in the CIA tracking you both, you’ll have to go dark, you know that, right? I mean, for them to be hacking a civilian’s computer is domestic spying, which is illegal. There must be a bad seed in the agency for this to be happening.”

  “I’m not exactly a civilian.”

  “You’re army and on their side, so it’s even worse. And she’s a civilian. I presume neither the CIA nor you have a warrant.”

  “Nor do you, for God’s sake.”

  “But what I’m doing is just criminal. What the CIA is doing is treason. They’re acting like a police state and spying against American citizens.”

  Smith could tell that Marty was winding up and he didn’t have the time to discuss the shades of gray and black that they were engaging in.

  “The CIA is good at this. You can’t use any technology for any length of time, you understand? That means no credit cards, no phone use, no accessing your bank accounts.”

  “You’re calling me on a burner phone. They already know we’re here. I’ll send you a text from each new prepaid that I use.” Smith checked his wallet. He had three hundred dollars on him. “I’m going to need cash.”

  Nolan had been looking down, but her head shot up at his comment.

  “I have cash,” she said. She reached for her tablet.

  “Do not touch that thing. It’s supposed to be turned off. In fact, let’s just throw it away.”

  Nolan shook her head. “I refuse. My whole life is loaded onto this hard drive.” Smith wanted to grab it and throw it across the room.

  “I’m going to have real trouble going dark while I’m around Ms. Nolan. She refuses to give up her computer,” he said to Marty. “Says it’s her whole life.”

  “I think I could love this woman,” Marty said.

  “Is there a way to turn off the GPS?”

  “For the phone, yes. Have her access the GPS feature and switch it off, but that’s not a complete fix because the 911 locater remains on and will use tower triangulation, not GPS. I’ve got to believe that the CIA can access the enhanced 911 feature. Her safest bet is to turn it off.”

  “And the tablet?” Smith redirected his attention to the room. As he did, the neighbor finished his chemistry work and stood up. Smith shifted the phone to his other ear to leave his right hand free. He moved it into his jacket in preparation. All the while, Marty kept talking.

  “For the tablet it’s the same. She can turn off the GPS feature, but that only kills one portion of the tablet’s systems. Every time she accesses her data package, I can see where she is by following the information flow. She’s going to have to turn it off. If she needs to use it, then only turn it on in very small doses.”

  “Got it.” Smith hung up. As he did, he noticed that Nolan was powering down both of her devices.

  “Let’s go,” he said to her. He stood.

  “To call the CIA?” Nolan stood as well, but the suspicious look was back on her face.

  Smith shook his head. “To get the hell out of here. Let’s go.”

  “Front door?”

  Smith nodded. “Fast.”

  Nolan grabbed her ever-present tote and headed to the door, weaving her way through the patrons. Smith came even with her and gripped her elbow tightly.

  “You’re grabbing again,” Nolan said in a low voice.

  “I’m not grabbing, I’m guiding,” Smith replied. “When we hit the door we’ll split. You head right, I’ll head left. Run a circle and meet me at the opposite side of Madison Square Park.” They were ten steps from the exit. Nolan’s eyes darted back and forth as she scanned the room. Two diners sat at a table and the one facing them, a man, glanced at Nolan and stared.

  “Try to calm down. The other patrons are noticing you.”

  “Calm down, are you serious?” Nolan spoke through clenched teeth. They passed another set of patrons, the last before the front door. They were a large group of men, all in business suits, sitting at a round table to the left. Three of them glanced up and gave Nolan a steady look, two with appreciation in their eyes. Smith realized the men were enjoying looking at her because she was attractive, not because they had divined the stress she was under. They reached the entrance.

  “Show time,” Smith said.

  He stepped in front of her and pulled open the door, reaching under his jacket as he did to remove his gun. He stilled when he came face to face with a couple coming toward them, trying to enter. Behind them he saw the shadow of a man hugging the narrow tip of the Flatiron Building to the right. The man’s head was up and his gaze fixed on the restaurant’s door. Twenty feet to the man’s left another suspicious character was pressed against the wall.

  “Reverse,” he said in a low voice to Nolan. He smiled at the entering couple, turned and propelled her back into the foyer.

  “What did you see?”

  “Trouble. Is there another exit in this place?”

  “On Twenty-fourth Street,” Nolan said.

  “Go there.”

  Nolan turned and race-walked back into the mammoth store. Smith released her but kept his hand in his jacket, grasping the gun but not removing it. He hated to wait — if the shooter appeared, he’d lose precious seconds pulling it free, but the last thing he needed was an entire marketplace in panic as a man with a gun in his hand marched through the roo
m.

  They dodged people and passed glass display counters, and Nolan turned right. Smith saw more glass exit doors in front of them.

  “This exits onto Twenty-fourth Street,” Nolan said. The strain in her voice was apparent. Smith kept at her side, scanning the patrons for any signs of quick movements or unusual interest in them. Nolan kept going. When they reached the door, Smith pulled the gun free of its holster but kept it hidden inside his coat. Nolan gave every indication that she intended to open the glass doors without hesitation.

  “Don’t. They could be covering this exit as well. Let me do it.”

  Nolan stepped back. “You should let me go first. They won’t shoot me.”

  Smith didn’t reply. He pushed on the bar and the door creaked open, letting in a gust of cool air. Nolan moved behind him. He peered out.

  The restaurant door opened onto Twenty-fourth Street. Parked cars lined both sides, narrowing the lane. If they wanted to run across the street, they’d have to dodge between them. Not an ideal situation. His view was limited on either side.

  “How long will it take you to run down Twenty-fourth Street until you hit Sixth?” Smith asked.

  “Far.”

  “Give it to me in time. How fast can you reach the corner and turn it? Thirty seconds of running? More?”

  Nolan swallowed. A sheen of sweat covered her face. “I don’t know. Maybe thirty.”

  Thirty seconds in the crosshairs of a professional shooter was a long time indeed.

  “We’ll need to split in opposite directions. When we do, try your best not to run in a straight line. Keep switching up the trajectory. Dodge between the cars and across the street if you can. I’ll try to draw any fire from a sentry.”

  Another set of patrons moved into position to exit and Smith stepped aside to let them leave. He followed them to the edge of the doors and this time he spotted the sentry across the street in the direction of Madison Square Park.

  The sentry was young, perhaps twenty-five years old, with sandy brown hair and a lanky body and looked thoroughly American, which surprised Smith. Like most in the Middle East, Khalil generally stuck to using blood relatives, albeit far-removed blood relatives, to do his dirty work. To use an American was an anomaly. He’d assumed that the mole in the CIA was sending his location to Khalil or one of his crew, but this didn’t look like the work of Khalil.

  Could the CIA mole have his own crew? Was Smith going to have to dodge two attackers, Khalil and someone else? Khalil was a formidable adversary, but Smith was as well. He wasn’t afraid to take on the assassin, but two hunting him at the same time was sobering, especially if one of the hunters had access to CIA technology and its network of mercenary assets. There were those who would take any job as long as it paid, even one that involved killing a colonel in the US Army. Howell, where the hell are you? Smith thought. Three people appeared on the street. The man retreated farther into the shadows.

  “There’s another sentry here,” Smith said.

  “Should we go back to the front door?” Nolan said.

  “Two in the front, one in the back, but with a long run down Twenty-fourth to freedom. Neither situation is good, but I think we try it here. If we move fast enough, he’ll have to make a choice about who he wants to kill first.” He looked at her. She appeared scared, but focused. “Can you do this?”

  “How long do you want me to wait for you at the park?” Nolan said.

  “I like your optimism. An hour. No more. Don’t turn on your phone or your computer.”

  “Why not?” Nolan’s voice was filled with suspicion.

  “Because the hacker I mentioned is breaking into your devices. Both have GPS inside. It’s how I’ve been tracking you and it’s how they are as well.”

  Nolan shot him an outraged look. “You hacked my phone? You tell me you’re one of the good guys and you do that? You’d better have a warrant.”

  “Stealing from Dattar was outrageous. Getting your phone hacked is the least of your problems. We’ll talk about it later. Right now we have to sprint to the corner without getting shot. I’m going to go first, you follow.” There was a steady stream of single pedestrians passing by the door, but not too many groups larger than two, which is what Smith needed.

  “All right, the next move is the toughest. The second that we see another group of pedestrians we’re going to run. I’ll go first, open the door and try to draw his fire. Whatever you do, keep moving.”

  Several people flowed past on the sidewalk. He made it to the door in two quick strides, pushed it open, and stepped onto the street. Nolan passed behind him and ran to the left. He stepped out and deliberately caught the sentry’s eye, telegraphing his knowledge of the trap. The man straightened. Smith ran to the right, keeping the gun in his hand hidden inside the jacket and banking on the fact that the sentry wouldn’t fire with others nearby. Smith could see the CIA asset, if that’s who the sentry was, tracking his progress. He began to run parallel to Smith, weaving between the passing sidewalk traffic. They were opposite each other, with only the narrow street and two sets of parked cars between them.

  Two more civilians crossed in front of the sentry, who pushed them out of his way in his haste to keep Smith in his sights. One, a young man with baggy pants and a baseball cap, stumbled. He regained his feet.

  “Who the hell you think you are?” the man yelled, but the sentry kept moving, ignoring the young man completely. Smith kept his concentration focused on dodging people as he ran toward the corner.

  Smith reached Fifth Avenue and darted right, turning the corner and watching for signs of the other two sentries. They were gone, but the one parallel to him kept pace, and Smith kicked into even higher gear, turning onto Twenty-third and running toward Broadway.

  He turned again on Broadway and immediately regretted the move. The sidewalk was clogged with slow-moving pedestrians. Smith bobbed and weaved between them. The back of his neck tingled and it was all he could do not to look behind him. He kept swerving, hoping the sudden movements would forestall the sentry from simply shooting him in the back of the head. To Smith the block seemed endless and the flow of people created a human obstacle course. Smith heard a scream and grunted when he felt something punch into his left arm followed by a flow of warm blood. He twisted to look behind him and saw the sentry with a gun pointed in Smith’s direction. The attached silencer explained why Smith hadn’t heard the shot.

  The crowd on the sidewalks reacted to the sight of the weapon. Civilians ran in all directions, cutting across the sentry’s line of fire. Smith darted across the street, turned, raised his own gun, pinpointed the sentry, and prepared to shoot.

  The sentry darted behind a pedestrian, grabbed him by the neck and used him as a human shield, batting the man’s female companion directly into Smith’s sights.

  “Get down!” Smith yelled.

  The woman screamed and knelt, covering her head with her hands. Three other people near her scrambled out of the way and scattered. A man at Smith’s right yelled an oath and turned away, bumping into two other people and knocking one down in his haste to flee.

  “Get out of here!” Smith yelled at the two on the ground.

  Smith heard another woman scream, but he kept his focus on the sentry as he dragged the hostage backward with him. The sentry took stock, let the hapless human shield go, and weaved and bobbed through more civilians back toward Twenty-third. A man pushing a baby stroller with headphones in his ears and appearing oblivious to the panic around him walked into Smith’s line of fire. Smith lowered his gun as he watched the sentry hit the corner, turn onto Twenty-third Street, and disappear.

  Smith holstered his gun and ran back toward Madison Square Park. At the corner of Twenty-third and Broadway he spotted Nolan across the street, at the park’s edge. The two sentries that had watched the restaurant’s Fifth Avenue entrance surrounded her. The new attackers held fast to her arms, one on each side as they propelled her across the park. One wore a dark suit and a white shi
rt that contrasted with his swarthy skin, the other wore dark cotton pants and an un-tucked, short-sleeved embroidered white shirt. When a breeze pushed the shirt against his spine Smith saw the outline of a bulky object. He presumed it was a gun in a holster at the small of the man’s back. Nolan marched between them, her tote in her hand and her head up. Smith couldn’t see her face, but she stood tall, straight and stiff. He turned on his phone and called Marty.

  “Did you get out of the restaurant?” Marty said without preamble.

  “Yes, but Nolan’s been captured. Are her devices still off?”

  “Let me check.” Smith dodged around a couple holding hands and past a young man with a backpack talking into his phone while he kept the tail on Nolan. “I’m sorry, but they’re off.”

  A limousine pulled up to the corner and idled. A man dressed in a navy turtleneck, black pants, and a sharp suit stepped out of it. Even at a distance Smith knew who it was. Khalil opened the passenger door and the two men holding Nolan pushed her into it, one man placing a hand on top of her head to help her clear the roof and the other pushing her on the back. When she was inside, Khalil joined her along with one of the men. The other crawled into the front with the driver. The limousine cut back into traffic and shot forward, running a stale yellow and turning at the next opportunity.

  “Keep watching, can you? The minute she turns them back on I need to know about it.”

  His next call was to Klein. “Khalil just loaded Nolan into a limousine at the edge of Madison Square Park. There’s a closed circuit camera at…” Smith crossed the street and ran toward a small structure within the park, “the Shake Shack in the park. Can you see if their camera captured an image?” Smith checked his watch. “They must have just closed for the evening.”

  “I’ll run it down. Are you sure it was Khalil? That’s very bad news,” Klein said.

  “I’m sure. I’m going to try to track her again.” Smith rang off and started running in the direction that the limousine had gone.

  The one time she listens to me and now she’s screwed, Smith thought.