“Shit!” yelled Dawson. “Buckle up boys, this is going to be rough.”
He heard seatbelts clicking and Jesus handles being grabbed as he went full throttle toward the intersection. Suddenly overhead he heard the thumping of rotors and dust begin to fill the air around them, brake lights blazing on as he dodged between the last few cars, the flashing of police cars already turning into the intersection to block him filling his field of vision.
The SUV shook as Dawson cut it hard to the right, his side sliding into a squad car with a terrific crunch of metal. He kept the accelerator floored and pulled away from the crash and down the road Atlas had indicated.
Dawson looked behind and all he saw was a cloud of dust with brilliant red brake lights and flashing police lights lost in the confusion. To the right he could see the stadium approaching, the parking lot nearly empty, the gates down. He cranked the wheel to the right, blasted through the flimsy wood barrier and out into the sea of pavement where he raced toward a completely open area to the left.
“Let’s go, Wings!” yelled Dawson as he screeched to a halt, the team exiting the vehicle and grabbing their gear. The thunder of Wings’ helicopter overhead ended any further conversation as dust and litter was whipped about. Moments later the skids bounced down and the team loaded into the back as the confusion at the intersection cleared, the police cars resuming the chase toward the stadium.
Dawson climbed aboard last, sliding the door shut as Wings lifted off, angling the chopper directly toward the lead vehicle causing the driver to slam on his brakes as Wings blasted overhead, leaving the Swiss police in disarray, unable to pursue them. Wings kept low over the roof tops, his transponder disabled to keep him off standard civilian scopes and within minutes they were landing outside the city in a field where they had pre-positioned another SUV.
Dawson let Spock drive after all eight of them were in the new vehicle, Dawson acting as navigator as they headed for their new digs found earlier in the day, confident this time they hadn’t been tracked.
Jimmy looked at Niner.
“So, what took you so damned long?”
Niner slugged him in the shoulder. Hard.
On route to Federico Fellini International Airport, Rimini, Italy
Martin Lacroix frowned as he heard the call go to voicemail. His apprentice had never missed a call in all the years he had known him, or if he had, there was a near immediate callback. It was almost a matter of pride with the man who had been with him for almost fifteen years, the last five as his finally selected apprentice. He knew the other candidates had been profoundly disappointed, and he had given them all the option to leave his employ and pursue other opportunities within The Order, but there had been no takers, for they knew the advantages of working directly for one of The Circle, apprentice or not.
He continued to stare at the phone, waiting for the callback, but it never came.
Perhaps something went wrong with the executions?
Ordering the deaths of the two professors hadn’t fazed him at all. With the staged death of the fiancée gathering nothing beyond a vague reference to the cataloging of an estate, he knew there was nothing further to gain from Professor Acton, and since she hadn’t been in his life at the time, the beautiful Professor Palmer had been of no use beyond the pawn she had already played.
She was beautiful.
He felt a twinge as he thought of her.
She would have been fun to wrestle with.
But she was dead by now, unless his apprentice had decided to have a little fun of his own. He felt a flash of jealousy that an underling should have some fun when he couldn’t, but it passed. His last taste of fun had led to the current situation.
The phone still hadn’t rung.
He dialed another number and it was immediately answered.
“Yes, Master, how may I help you?” asked the breathless voice.
“What’s wrong? I can’t reach my apprentice.”
“The two professors have escaped. They had help from the outside. Your apprentice, Master, I’m sorry, but—” There was a pause, as if the man were terrified to say the words Lacroix already knew.
“He’s dead.”
“Yes, Master. One other is dead, several more are injured. They had help from the outside. A car with a single occupant. We got the license plate and are trying to track it now. All we do know is they definitely have left San Marino already.”
Lacroix’s jaw was clenched tight, his blood pressure building as the rage within seethed, it not yet finding an outlet. His fist flew into the passenger seat rest in front of him, startling his driver who didn’t risk even glancing in the rearview mirror.
“They must be found,” growled Lacroix.
“Yes, my master, we are doing everything we can.”
“Very well.”
“Master, wait! I have news!”
The excitement in the man’s voice conveyed the subject matter to Lacroix better than any words could.
“You’ve found it.”
“Yes, sir, well sort of. We found the estate that had the auction, and one of our operatives paid the auction house a visit.”
“And?”
“And we found the buyer. It was part of a lot, so it wasn’t purchased specifically. We’ve got two operatives heading there now.”
“Where?”
“Barcelona.”
“Tell them to exercise utmost caution. This could be the most important mission of their lives.”
“I already have, my master, but I will remind them again immediately.”
“Very well. Keep me informed. The Circle will want regular updates on your progress.”
“Absolutely, Master.”
Lacroix killed the call, tossing the phone on the plush leather beside him. If his people could find the long lost Catalyst, he would go down in history as one of the greatest members of The Order ever, and it might even put him in contention for Number One’s position should he die. Though Number One had his own apprentice, upon the death, a vote was held amongst the surviving members of The Circle to determine who should be the new Number One, then they were all renumbered according to number of ballots received.
As the latest member to join The Circle, he was automatically Number Eight, a position he was certain he would maintain should a vote have been held two days ago. But now with the Catalyst almost within their grasp, he had a funny feeling he’d place much higher in the balloting.
And if he played his cards right, he just might become the most powerful man in The Order.
Then no one would be able to criticize him ever again.
Or delay his plans.
The Founder had taught it was imperative to keep the world’s population at a safe level. That level had been exceeded in Europe and the result was the Dark Ages, not ended until the Black Death leveled things back out. But with advances in science and medicine, the world population had grown at an alarming rate during the twentieth century, with no diseases able to gain a foothold and bring the population down to acceptable levels.
Yes, those levels changed with time, the five hundred million number in his mind too low. His interpretation of the teachings was that the world population should be at a level sustainable for the planet. With modern farming techniques, that meant the ability of the planet to feed the population had grown. The problem was no longer food, it was other types of resources. The planet was being stripped of its resources to build massive cities and structures that could never be maintained indefinitely without outside replacements. Already companies were looking to the moon, Mars, the asteroid belt. They knew there was no way to sustain this rate of growth.
And once the resources ran out, the entire population, whether it was seven billion or twenty billion, would suffer, and potentially wipe each other out in a battle for what remained.
But if the population could be brought under control before the crisis occurred, there would be thousands of years’ worth of resources for that smaller, susta
inable population. He personally felt one billion was a reasonable number. It was large enough to maintain cultural and genetic diversity, to populate the entire planet in reasonable pockets, and to sustain an economy of global proportions where capitalism could still thrive.
The question for The Order had always been how to achieve that. Disease had always been believed to be the only way, but he had come up with a different method that he was certain would work, and could be implemented within a generation without the public even knowing. In fact, it was already being implemented, with those on the left and right cheering it on, totally unaware of how this great advance could be twisted and turned into the greatest population die off in the history of humanity.
And if he were to lead The Order, he could implement it within less than five years, leaving the planet with his one billion target, living in the richest nations of the world, leaving the remainder of the planet to sustain and improve the lifestyles of those that survived and would flourish in the new reality, with The Order carefully guiding things in the background.
Rue de la Tour de I’lle, Geneva, Switzerland
“What have you got for us?” asked Dawson, the secure phone on speaker with Atlas.
“When the professors escaped they managed to steal the apprentice’s phone. I’ve traced the number they think might belong to Lacroix and I’m showing his last location at an airport in Rimini, Italy.”
“So he’s flown the coop,” said Jimmy. “Where to?”
“We’ve got a private flight leaving there not even an hour ago. It’s due to land in Colmar, France in less than an hour.”
Dawson’s head bobbed. “Good. Niner and Mickey should already be in the air thanks to Professor Palmer letting us borrow her jet again. Relay the new info to them; they might be able to get there first.”
“Casey’s doing that now, already confirmed that they should get there about ten minutes before,” replied Atlas. “Professor Palmer’s plane should then be refueled and back in Geneva within a little over an hour to pick you up.”
“Equipment?”
“Our French connection is already on his way with everything we asked for. Should rendezvous with the advance team about an hour after they arrive.”
Dawson smiled as there was a knock on the door.
“Excellent work,” he said. “Hold on for a second, we’ve got someone at the door.”
Jimmy and Jagger covered the door as they waited for the second coded knock.
It came and Jimmy opened the door, Jagger still with his weapon trained on the entrance until the new arrival was recognized and confirmed clear. Dawson saw Jagger’s shoulders relax as Wings and Red entered, closing the door behind them.
“Good news?” asked Dawson.
Red smiled, looking between Jimmy and Jagger.
“I think they’re going to love them.”
Dawson grinned as Jimmy and Jagger frowned.
“Do we really need to go that far?” asked Jimmy. “I’m willing to hike it out if necessary.”
“Hey, you’re the ones who were stupid enough to let yourselves get caught,” said Mickey with a grin, flopping down on a nearby cot. “Besides, it’s not like we’re crossing the Atlantic. You’ll survive.”
Dawson turned back to the comm unit sitting on the table.
“What’s the status on their files?”
“We hacked the system and removed all electronic records of those two bozos ever having been there along with their prints and mug shots.”
“Paper records?”
“Swiss policy is electronic records only. Some green initiative.”
“Thank God for the eco-movement,” said Jimmy. “I’d really like to come back to this country sometime.”
“Looks like we got lucky,” said Dawson. He pointed to a pile of supplies sitting on a table, then the bathroom. “Now why don’t you two ex-cons get yourselves ready?”
“But if there’s no records, do we really need to do this?” protested Jimmy. “Come on, BD, live dangerously!”
Spock’s eyebrow shot up as Dawson’s head dropped, giving Jimmy the eye.
“Red, get your knife. I want their heads shaved as closely as yours.”
Red stood, pulling his Bowie knife from its sheath.
“Fine! Fine!” said Jimmy, waving Red off and grabbing the bag from the table. “I think you guys just want to see me in lipstick again.”
“Again?” asked Jagger as he followed Jimmy into the bathroom. “Do I need to be worried stuck in here with you?”
There was a smack of a hand hitting an ass.
“You’re not my type,” said Jimmy as the door closed, Jagger’s reply cut off.
“Touch my ass again and I’ll—”
Milton Residence, St. Paul, Maryland
Gregory Milton had sat at the kitchen table since the moment he had made the call to Fort Bragg. It had been hours, and his newly found sense of feeling in his legs and particularly his ass were starting to really bother him. His wife sat at the table with him, silently surfing on her iPad to keep him company, she quickly having discovered he was in no mood to chat.
His best friend—scratch that, his best friends—were in trouble and he had no idea what was going on.
“We’ll have the professors contact you when we have them.”
That was the last he had heard.
Surely they would have rescued them by now?
Then again, they were in a different country, there was travel time, maybe they had their own priorities?
There were dozens of perfectly plausible reasons for not having heard yet, and every time he reached for the phone to make a call, Sarah would reach out and place her hand gently over his.
“Give them time,” she would say. “You calling won’t speed things along.”
He shifted in his chair, his right ass cheek finally demanding relief.
“Can I get you anything?” the ever attentive Sarah asked.
He shook his head, then stopped as his stomach rumbled.
“Tea biscuits and a glass of milk?”
She winked at him, knowing exactly what he was doing. Occupying her time. She stood up and poked her head out into the hallway leading to the stairs.
“Niskha, do you want to help Mommy bake tea biscuits for Daddy?”
The reply was the pounding of tiny feet on the floor overhead, then the much less confident footsteps on the stairs.
He’d never tire of hearing those little feet and his chest tightened a bit as he realized that in a few years, those feet wouldn’t be so little anymore.
The phone rang and they all jumped as he grabbed it. He didn’t recognize the call display.
“Hello?”
“Greg, it’s me, Jim!”
He felt a sense of relief wash over him as every muscle in his body relaxed, including some he didn’t remember being able to feel anymore.
“Thank God! And Laura?”
“She’s right here beside me.”
“Hi Greg!” he heard her call.
“We’re here with Hugh, still in Italy. We managed to escape and I think we’re safe now. But we need your help.”
“Name it,” said Milton, grabbing the pen and pad of paper.
“I need you to find an old photograph.”
“A photograph? What the hell for?”
“Daddy swore!” whispered Niskha to her mother’s leg.
And when it was explained to Milton, he realized the danger his friends had been in was far from over.
Colmar-Houssen Airport, Colmar, France
Niner stepped onto the tarmac first and shivered. It was damned cold, and in the too near distance the mountains made it clear why, their snowcapped peaks lost in the covering of snow stretching down the entire height into the nearby valley. Mickey stopped beside him, admiring the view.
“Man I love mountains,” he muttered, then stepped toward the small terminal. Once inside it didn’t feel that much warmer to Niner, which was something he found quite oft
en in these types of locations, central heating seeming to be a North American necessity, everywhere else a luxury. A fire roared in a nearby hearth, and they both walked over to warm themselves as they waited for their baggage to be brought inside.
The door opened letting in a rush of cold air as a lone staff member relegated to the outdoor duties pulled their two bags in on a trolley. One was a bright purple, the other lime green, Red’s idea of a joke.
“Your covers are two gay lovers on a nice romantic getaway to the mountains for some skiing, hot chocolate and rubdowns in front of the fireplace,” he had said. “Who knows where the evening could lead?”
Niner had jumped up and down, quickly clapping his hands together while Mickey had groaned.
“You had to partner me with him on this, didn’t you? You know he’ll take it too far.”
Red grinned.
“I’m counting on it.”
The man who had brought their luggage in had looked old enough to be Niner’s grandfather, causing Niner to feel a twinge of guilt until he witnessed the old man slinging them around like they were filled with feathers. Instead of offering to help, Niner took a moment to get into character.
He decided to have fun, channeling Eddie Murphy from Beverly Hills Cop—hands on the hips, shoulders shoved forward, elbows back, head cocked to the side with his lips puckered. He turned to Mickey who Niner was sure had to clench his sphincter to avoid shitting his pants in laughter.
Mickey decided to play the alpha and stepped toward the lone counter, a woman who might have been the luggage guy’s wife manning it.
“Bonjour, parlez vous Anglais?” he asked.
“But of course, monsieur.”
Mickey pushed his fake passport forward. “You have a vehicle for us, under Green?”
“Of course, monsieur. It is outside, fully gassed and ready to go.” The woman held out a pair of keys which Mickey took, handing them to Niner.
“Thanks, sweetie,” whispered Niner, putting his head on Mickey’s shoulder.
The Circle of Eight (A James Acton Thriller, Book #7) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 21
