Dawson heard a click behind him.
“Got it!” Niner rolled aside as Red and Spock entered through the now open door, spreading out. Dawson followed, Niner bringing up the rear and closing the door behind them.
“They’re on the floor!” hissed Mickey through the comms. “Five seconds and they’re looking in that fishbowl!”
“Everything’s locked!” said Spock as he and Red tried several doors at the rear of the reception area.
“There’s no time to pick another one,” said Niner as Dawson looked around.
“Everyone behind the reception desk,” he said, his team immediately rushing toward the only substantial piece of furniture in the waiting area that could provide cover from the hallway windows. Dawson dropped, pulling the late arriving Spock under the cramped desk.
“They’re right on you, keep still.”
Dawson looked over his shoulder and cursed. The back of the desk, providing them with the only cover they had, was made from a single piece of gently curving frosted glass.
He clenched his fist and could see everyone tense up, freezing. A rattle at the front door had Dawson thanking God that Niner had the presence of mind to lock it behind them. Niner cleared his throat.
Dawson looked over at him, moving only his eyeballs, and could see Niner staring at the wall that backed the waiting area. Dawson looked to his left and nearly shit.
It was wall to wall glass. Mirrored glass. And sitting right where they should be, were four Delta team members huddled under a desk, as plain as plain could be.
The door rattled again.
Rue du Mont Blanc, Geneva, Switzerland
Acton rubbed his eyes, the jet lag hitting him hard, and the screen he had been staring at for hours not helping. Laura had already given up, curled in a ball beside him, gently breathing, gorgeous as ever.
His eyes drooped.
On the other side of the room Jimmy was asleep, lying on a cot, the space Spock had rented for them definitely commercially oriented as opposed to residential. It made sense, comings and goings at all hours were less noticed in a commercial district. They had equipped it with cots and sleeping bags, lots of bottled water and food that didn’t need to be cooked like protein bars and dried cereals.
It was adequate for their purposes, and being used to living at dig sites in the middle of nowhere for weeks or months on end, it didn’t bother him at all.
Because there was a bathroom.
A clean bathroom with running water. No shower, but they could wash themselves enough to not stink in a crowd. There was a sound at the door and Jagger rose.
“Could they be back already?” whispered Acton, reaching for the Glock 22 that sat on the table in front of him.
“Only if they had to abort,” said Jagger, shaking his head. He kicked Jimmy’s cot and the man bolted upright, immediately alert. “We’ve got company,” whispered Jagger.
The door suddenly burst open, men in what looked like military or police gear bursting through, one of them yelling, “Police!” along with something in French.
“Stand down!” yelled Jimmy as the room quickly filled with armed men, their automatic weapons raised. Acton raised his hands, the Glock still gripped tightly, and positioned himself in front of a startled Laura.
“Take it easy,” said Jimmy, trying to calm the room. “Professor, Jagger, just lower your weapons very slowly, let everyone know we’re friendly here.”
Acton changed his grip, pinching the weapon between his thumb and forefinger, slowly lowering it to the table he had just picked it up from. Once laid down, he raised his hand back up, then stepped away from the table.
“You are all under arrest for the possession of illegal firearms,” announced a man in plainclothes. He looked around the room. “Where are the others?”
“What others?” asked Jimmy.
“There are six other men with you. Where are they?”
“I think you have bad information there, officer, there’s just the four of us, and those two”—he nodded toward Acton and Laura—“are our prisoners.”
“Yes, I too give all my prisoners their own semi-automatics.”
Jimmy shrugged and gave Acton an “it was worth a try” look.
Handcuffs were slapped on all four of them, then they were patted down, Laura and Acton clean, but several knives and other accoutrements of the trade discovered on the Delta operatives.
They were led out and down the stairs to the street below. Acton and Laura were loaded in the back of a paddy wagon with metal seating along the sides. Two officers joined them. The doors closed and the vehicle began to roll.
Suddenly the two men leapt forward. The one nearest Acton pressed his service weapon against Acton’s temple, the other doing the same to Laura.
“Don’t move!” ordered Acton’s man. Something jabbed in his thigh. He looked down to see a needle stuck in his leg, the plunger being pushed by his captor, and as he spun to see the same thing being done to Laura, his world faded to black, only one thing clear in his mind.
These are not police.
Chemin des Colombettes, Geneva, Switzerland
Dawson held his breath, praying the dim lighting and the fact nobody was looking for them would trick the guards into not noticing the four figures reflected in the mirror, huddled under the reception desk. Every muscle in his body tensed as he tried to freeze, and he could tell the others were doing the same, terrified a single movement would be noticed and they’d be forced to engage these two innocent men.
Suddenly, after what seemed an eternity but was only seconds, the guards stepped away from the door and continued on. Dawson watched the shadows move away, the pounding in his chest easing as they eventually disappeared.
“You’re all clear,” announced Mickey.
Dawson scrambled out from under the desk and pulled Red out as Niner did the same for Spock. Niner raced for the first locked door and jimmied it.
“Bingo!” he hissed. They all quickly entered the office area and closed the door behind them, momentarily safe from the guards. A hallway stretched in three directions, with no indications on where to go except for red exit and blue bathroom signs.
Dawson used hand signals to send the other three down each hall, and within seconds Spock’s voice was heard over the comm. “Got it.”
Footfalls filled the hallways as they all converged on Spock’s position, the opened door labeled “Dr. Martin Lacroix, Chief International Funding” and translated into French and German underneath. Dawson waited for everyone to enter then he closed the door. Niner dropped into the bastard’s chair, inserting a device into one of the USB slots and booting the computer.
Dawson helped Red unpack the cabinet scanner from Langley and within moments the first cabinet was being scanned, page after page flipping by on the display.
“Remarkable,” muttered Red. Dawson and Spock began rifling through drawers and other personal belongings, looking for anything useful.
“I’m in,” said Niner. “I’ll just download everything from his local hard drives, pull all his emails, contacts and calendar; anything else will be gravy.”
“Do it,” said Dawson, kneeling to Niner’s left as he went through the last drawer in the desk, having found nothing so far but office supplies, and a few bottles of scotch. “Hello.” Dawson held up a Glock that had been stuffed in the back of the drawer, hidden behind several boxes of Cuban cigars. He quickly removed the firing pin, Niner grinning as he did so.
“Mickey, status.”
“They’re about to find your flare,” replied Mickey. “That should set off a shit storm.”
“Roger that.” He looked up and saw Red already moving on to the final cabinet. “Red, time?”
“Three minutes.”
“Niner?”
“On to the gravy already.”
“We’re out of here in three,” said Dawson to everyone including Mickey.
“Not sure if you’re going to get it. The woman you scared off wit
h the flare is talking to the guards in the lobby. The guards will find the flare in about five seconds”—he drew out the word—“and they just spotted it. They know someone’s here.”
“How long can you maintain control?”
“I’ve already lost it. I’m just an observer now, they’ve rebooted their system and now have complete control. You might not have noticed but the fire alarm hasn’t been going off the past minute.”
Dawson paused to listen and realized Mickey was right.
“Options?”
“Plan B.”
“Plan B it is.”
“Done!” announced Red, packing the machine back in his bag and slinging it over his shoulders. Niner yanked the USB scanner from the slot and zipped it in one of his pockets. Dawson opened the door then waved his men through.
“Status!”
“You’re clear on the twelfth floor for the moment, but guards are converging from upper and lower floors. They’ll know for sure where you are once you enter the hallway.”
“Left or right.”
“Left. Get to the stairwell and haul ass down.”
“Roger that.”
They entered the outer office and Niner tossed a spray paint can to Spock who quickly laid down a little art.
World Bank = New World Order!
Dawson opened the outer door as Spock discarded the can. They exited the office, sprinting toward the stairwell doors at the end of the hallway.
“You’re still clear,” said Mickey.
Dawson pulled the door open, letting the other three go by, then followed. He popped a smoke grenade and tossed it onto the landing, then dropped another down the gap between the railings, the metal casing clanging against the rails, a trail of smoke obscuring its final resting place. He pulled a face mask down that would filter his breathing from the non-toxic smoke, then pulled a rifle scope from his pocket with a thermal imager. Holding it up to his goggles, he was able to see clearly through the smoke, quickly rushing after the others who were now a flight below him, their own scopes out.
“You’ve got company coming from two floors below, but they’re confused. Exit on the next floor then cut across to the opposite stairwell.”
Niner pushed through the door to the eighth floor, the others disappearing through the doorway. Dawson took a peak down and could see the guards waving at the smoke and coughing. He went through the door and gently closed it, then sprinted after the others.
“You’ve been spotted,” said Mickey. “Two guards are crossing from the seventh to the same stairwell you’re about to hit.”
“Roger that,” said Dawson. “Keep going.”
A little more gas was applied and Niner reached the door, pulling it open then racing down the stairs, the others close on his heels. Dawson hit the door, his foot bracing in the jamb, then pushing off toward the stairs, he dove through the air, his left hand grabbing the railing then pulling his body so his feet hit the landing below, then swinging around to the next flight of stairs with his momentum carrying him.
His foot hit a step about half way down and he jumped again, releasing his grip on the railing above and dropping his hand, grabbing the next railing below. Just as his feet hit the seventh floor landing the door opened. Dawson twisted and grasping the railing hard enough to let his hand slide down it, he swung his feet out, planting them hard against the door, slamming it shut, then pushing off to resume his descent. He tossed a smoke grenade behind him as the door opened again.
“You’ve gained a level on them,” announced Mickey. “You’ve got four waiting for you in the lobby, armed. One is at the security desk monitoring the cameras, the other three are at your door, weapons drawn, over.”
“How many above us?” asked Dawson as they passed the third floor landing.
“Two.”
“Red, hold up,” ordered Dawson as he spun around, drawing his Taser. He took a knee as Red joined him on the landing, his own Taser out. “I’ll take the left, you take the right.” The footfalls above them neared and Dawson spotted the boots of the first one rounding the landing, then their owner’s face gasping in surprise as he tried to hold up, the other rounding the railing with him.
Dawson squeezed the trigger, the probe firing, embedding itself in the first man’s chest, the wires conducting the 50,000 volts to the man’s body.
He dropped, tumbling down the stairs as Red fired into the second target. Dawson grabbed the first man, throwing him over his shoulder and carrying him down the remaining flights as Red did the same with his. Niner was at the door with Spock.
“Status?”
“You’ve got them confused,” said Mickey. “They know you’ve got two of their guys.”
“Okay, meat shield time,” said Dawson, handing his spent Taser to Niner who reloaded it, handing it back as Spock reloaded Red’s. Dawson swung his man’s feet to the ground as he slowly began to regain control of his body, then looked at Niner. “Ready?”
Niner nodded then pulled the door open. Dawson pushed his man out in front of him, Red following, quickly advancing toward the three guards now joined by the fourth. Red was beside him, his man barely able to walk as Niner and Spock ducked behind them.
Dawson whispered into the comm. “By the numbers, left to right. Three…two…one…execute.” He squeezed the trigger on his Taser and the probe burst from the tip, hitting the man second from the left in his chest. Red took out the man immediately to the right as Niner and Spock leaned out and incapacitated the two on the ends. All four men dropped to the floor, shaking. Dawson shoved his man on top of the mass of electrified flesh, then ejected his cartridge, his feet already pounding toward the front doors.
“You’re all clear from here, but police are on the way, ETA one minute,” said Mickey.
Dawson pushed through the first set of double doors, then the next, the crisp night air a welcome feeling. He checked left and right, a single car heading the opposite direction the only traffic, no pedestrians in sight. He sprinted across the street, fishing a fob from his pocket and pressing the button. A van pre-positioned earlier for their Plan B option chirped as the doors unlocked. Dawson jumped in the driver’s seat, Red the passenger as the other two climbed in the back.
“Go! Go! Go!” yelled Spock from the back as he closed the door. Dawson hit the gas, pulling out from the curb and gunning it toward the intersection ahead just as the flashing lights of a police car swung around the corner. Dawson eased off the gas but didn’t hit the brakes, the harshness of brake lights perhaps arousing suspicion. He came to the intersection just as the lights turned green and immediately made a right, heading away from the building and the source of more police cars in the distance.
“There’s Mickey,” said Red, pointing. Dawson pulled over and the side door slid open. Mickey jumped in and Dawson gunned it as Niner closed the door.
“Wings?” asked Dawson.
Mickey leaned forward between the two front seats. “Already returned the chopper and on his way back to paradise.”
“Good. You guys change back to civie clothes,” said Dawson as he made another turn, easing off the accelerator now that they were far enough away. Grunts and curses from the back made him smile as the men changed their clothes, packing their gear in large duffel bags.
Spock seemed the most efficient.
“Whenever you’re ready, BD,” he said. Dawson pulled into a parking spot and stripped out of the most obvious gear, tossing it into the back for Niner and Mickey to deal with. When he wouldn’t attract attention, he stepped out of the vehicle and switched off with Spock, the van underway moments later as Dawson continued to change along with Red.
“BD, put on your comm, Wings says we’ve got a problem.”
Niner handed him his headset and mike. Dawson inserted the earpiece and held the mike up to his mouth.
“This is Bravo One, go ahead.”
“Bravo One, we’ve got a problem. I just reached our rendezvous point and it’s crawling with police, over.”
<
br /> “Are you clear?”
“Yeah, I was able to duck down an alleyway. It looks like they hit our rooms.”
“Any sign of the others?”
“Negative. Suggest you avoid this area.”
“Understood. Spock, take us one block south. Wings, meet us there.”
“Roger that. ETA?”
“Three minutes,” said Spock as he eyed the GPS mounted on the dash. Red reached forward and reprogrammed it to the next street just in case there were any one way surprises, and they drove the rest of the way in silence.
“You’re gonna want to see this,” said Niner, handing a tablet computer to Dawson as Spock pointed.
“There’s Wings.”
He pulled to the side, Wings climbing into the vacant passenger seat, motioning for Spock to move on.
Dawson eyed the footage of the camera they had planted, its feed transmitted and stored on a secure Internet site. It showed the professors on a couch, Jimmy sleeping, Jagger on watch, then suddenly the door bursting open and police rushing in. They were led out in handcuffs, the remaining footage of no concern.
“Shit!” cursed Dawson, handing the tablet back to Niner. “They’ve been arrested.”
“Now what?” asked Niner.
“Now I call in another favor.”
The Wellington Hospital, London, England
Interpol Special Agent Hugh Reading sat at the bedside of his former Scotland Yard partner, Detective Inspector Martin Chaney. He had been shot almost two months ago in Egypt when Professor Palmer’s dig site had been attacked. It was supposed to have been a vacation, friends joined together in the camaraderie of doing something with your hands other than firing a weapon.
It had been anything but.
And now his friend battled for his life, stuck in a coma the doctors said he may come out of today, or never.
When his job didn’t take him out of the city or out of the country, Reading tried to visit his friend every day. He’d read him the paper, insult his favorite football club, and relay emails from the two professors, and on the bad days, he’d curse him out for being so stubborn. Today was a bad day.
The Circle of Eight (A James Acton Thriller, Book #7) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 16
