I could still make it.
Chapter 29
Rome
THE LEADER TOOK A half step backward, as if sensing Jake’s anger.
“What’s he got on you?” Jake growled, moving slowly to one side. “Cheating on your wife? Caught with your hand in the till? Something worse?”
A cloud passed over the man’s face. His fingers tightened on the weapon as he moved to counter Jake’s steps, the two of them slowly circling the laundry bags. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” the man said, jiggling the gun.
“Shoot me,” Jake said, as he slid the toe of one foot under the edge of one of the bags. “And Geppetto will make you and your family pay. Dearly.”
A flash of uncertainty crossed the man’s features, and that’s when Jake launched the laundry bag into his face. The leader dodged, the gun hand wavered, and Jake lunged with a double palm strike to the chest that slammed the slighter man into the laundry chute door, knocking the breath out of him as he slumped to the floor. The pistol fell; Jake grabbed it and turned it on the stunned man.
“Not a word,” Jake said. He swung open the chute door and yanked the leader to his feet. Jake pressed the muzzle of the weapon into the man’s forehead, urging him backward until the back of the man’s thighs touched the bottom lip of the gaping chute. “You’re nothing more than a pawn in this mess and that’s why I’m not going to kill you. I am, however, going to need your help with one last thing.” He grabbed hold of the man’s vest.
The leader’s eyes widened and Jake shoved him into the chute, discarding the pistol and clinging to the vest as he leaped in with him. There was an instant of free fall and then a jarring crunch and a shot of pain in his shoulder. They’d dropped into an empty laundry bin and the impact had snapped the leader’s head into one of the spars that supported the canvas cart. The man’s eyes glassed over. Jake pushed himself to his knees. He checked the man’s pulse and confirmed he wasn’t dead.
“Sorry about that,” Jake muttered as he pulled himself out of the bin. He rushed out the laundry room door and into the basement garage.
“Jake!” Lacey shouted from the back of an open ambulance door.
He sprinted and jumped inside. He slid next to Lacey onto a bench beside the gurney supporting the unconscious guard. Pete and Skylar nodded from the front seat, then Skylar put the vehicle in gear and started toward the exit ramp. Lacey gave him a relieved smile and Jake blew out a long breath.
Maybe things are finally turning my way.
He was reaching to pull the rear doors closed when Pete’s shout turned all eyes forward.
“Shite!”
A large BMW sedan lurched to a stop on the street outside the exit ramp. The passenger window rolled down and a weapon popped into view.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Skylar said, flooring the gas pedal and swerving onto the sidewalk to avoid the car. The side panel scraped the rear bumper of the BMW as it shot past. The ambulance jumped the curb and veered onto the cobbled street.
“Hang on,” Jake yelled. He and Lacey struggled to keep from tumbling from the bench as the top-heavy vehicle fishtailed, the open rear doors swinging wildly from side to side.
Traffic was light at this late hour. Skylar turned on the siren and emergency lights and continued flooring it. Out the open rear doors, Jake saw the BMW spin a U-turn and race after them.
“They’re gaining on us,” Lacey cried out, one hand gripping the gurney and the other on the bench.
“Not for long,” Skylar said, running a red light. A large truck veered to avoid them and the BMW squealed to a stop behind it. Skylar spun into a turn so sharp that Jake lost his balance and sprawled over the guard, knocking the unconscious man’s glasses askew. That’s when Jake noticed the flicker of an image on the inside of the lenses. He grabbed the glasses and slid them on.
“Holy shit,” he said, as a HUD—heads-up display—came into focus on the upper corner of the right lens. It was like looking through a video camera, the image shifting as he turned his head this way and that, a red icon indicating the device was recording. Then he noticed the full-bar signal icon. He yanked the lenses from his face and cocked his arm toward the open rear doors. But he stopped himself before tossing them out.
The ambulance took another sharp turn but Jake held steady, braced by the coiled tension in his muscles.
“The bastard’s been monitoring the entire operation,” he muttered to himself, his mind flashing on the eyewear worn by each of the teams that had pursued him over the past twenty-four hours.
“What did you say?” Lacey asked.
He ignored her, flipping the lenses around so that they faced him. He glowered into the lens and raised his voice so that it could be heard over the ambulance’s siren. “Bar the doors and hold on to your ass, you puppet-loving son of a bitch. Because I’m coming for you.” Then he located the selector switch and toggled off the device.
“Google Glass?” Lacey asked.
“Or something like it,” he said, examining the slim frames. “The miniaturization is beyond anything I’ve ever seen before. They look like everyday glasses. Somebody’s holding a tight leash on his puppets.” He folded the glasses and slipped them into his pocket. “But the tighter the leash, the easier it is for the animal to turn around and bite you.”
The BMW skidded from a side street a block behind them. It was close enough that he could see the driver’s face each time the BMW passed beneath a streetlamp.
The driver was wearing glasses.
“You can’t outrun a BMW with an ambulance,” Jake shouted.
“Sure ye can,” Pete said, his voice jerking as the ambulance bounced over a pothole. “So long as we can get a block ahead of the wanker.”
“Another plan?” Jake asked.
“Just hang on tight.”
“Screw that,” Jake said. He hated not knowing what the hell Pete had up his sleeve, and sitting still and hanging on tight just wasn’t his style. The BMW was less than half a block behind them and gaining fast. A second pair of headlights charged up behind it and now two vehicles were chasing them. He scanned the ambulance’s interior, looking for anything he could throw out to slow them down. But there wasn’t anything big enough.
Except...
He reached down and unlatched the gurney’s wheel locks.
“No!” Lacey cried out. She jammed her foot behind the gurney and grabbed hold of the unconscious guard’s arm. “He’s our only chance.”
Jake pointed at the cars behind them. “What the hell good is he if we’re in handcuffs?”
“I’m not letting you toss—”
She stopped when Skylar spun the vehicle onto a narrow side street, the wheels screeching as she streaked between rows of parked cars lining either side of the road. A pedestrian leaped to one side and pumped his fist in anger as the ambulance sped past.
“Shut up, the both of ye,” Pete said. He grabbed Skylar’s phone from the console and tapped an entry. “Going loopers in the middle of a scene amn’t gonna help a thing. And we’ve only got one take at doin’ this right so settle down. And like I said, hang on tight!”
“Coming up on it...” Skylar said with the calm authority of a fighter pilot on a strafing run. “In three. Two. One.”
Pete tapped the screen and suddenly two unoccupied smart cars they’d just passed pulled from the curb and blocked the road. The BMWs skidded to a stop, horns blaring. When the empty cars didn’t move, the lead BMW nosed forward, its rear wheels smoking as it started to push the smaller cars out of the way. They disappeared from view when Skylar made a sharp left at the next intersection.
“Ten seconds, Harry,” Pete said into his phone. “Start ’er up.”
The road forked and Skylar turned off the emergency lights and siren, veering to the right into a quiet neighborhood of shops and residential buildings. There was no sign of the BMWs. Then two more quick turns and she stopped as another ambulance pulled out of a garage in front of them. Pete jumped out and ha
nded the bearded driver a small box. The man nodded, the other ambulance sped away, and Skylar pulled into the garage it had just exited. She killed the engine. Pete followed them inside and pulled the garage door closed behind them, plunging the space into darkness.
Nobody moved, and Jake had the sense that all four of them were holding their breaths. Ten seconds later they heard the BMWs charge past.
“And that’s a wrap,” Pete said. He switched on an overhead fluorescent light and approached the vehicle’s open rear doors. “The tossers are likely tracking the ambulance’s GPS, which I just passed on to Harry. He’ll make sure they get a quick gander at him around the next corner. Then he’ll take ’em on a good ride before he dumps the ambulance and heads for the nearest pub. He’ll be twisted in an hour, toasting our health, and patting the bonus wad of bills in his pocket.”
Skylar exited the driver’s seat and came around back. Framed by the ambulance’s open doors, the two of them were an odd sight—the imposing Irishman with an arched eyebrow and a twinkle in his eye, and the freckled-face sprite beside him, hands on her hips and a smug smile on her face. They seemed to be waiting for Jake to say something.
He looked from them to Lacey, who shrugged as if to say, What did you expect?
Jake broke into a grin and pulled her into a tight hug. “I’m so damn glad to see you.” She hugged him back and he felt the tension leak from her frame.
“Me, too,” she said softly, her voice catching.
They stepped out of the ambulance and Jake saw a weathered Fiat sedan parked beside it. “Every detail,” he said. “Right down to the nondescript getaway car.” He took Pete’s hand and the men exchanged a firm grip. “You run a hell of a show.”
“Smoke and mirrors. It’s what we do.”
Skylar gave Jake a high five. “You didn’t do so bad yourself. You saved our butts by drawing that team after you in the hospital.”
“Luck was on our side,” he said, knowing all too well that whatever good luck they had wouldn’t last for long.
Chapter 30
Rome
THE PRISONER WASN’T TALKING. The young, square-faced operator was in an abandoned wine cellar, seated in a hardback chair, ankles zip-tied to the chair legs, his hands tied behind him. His tactical vest had been discarded and his pockets emptied. He seemed to be taking it all in stride, ignoring Pete’s first few questions with a defiant glare. Skylar stood beside the Irishman with an angry stare, and Jake sensed she was anxious to play her role in the unfolding scene. Lacey paced behind them, impatiently waiting for the results Jake knew would never come to pass.
How could they? he thought, thumbing a text into his phone as he watched from his perch on the open staircase. Even if the man broke, Jake doubted he could provide any helpful information. Hell, even the man’s boss, who’d cornered Jake in the hospital laundry room, didn’t know who was behind the operation.
Geppetto. The man pulling the strings.
Pete held the prisoner’s wallet up to his face and flipped it open to reveal a silver and orange badge and ID. “Carabinieri? Special Intervention Group? Aren’t ye lads operating a tad out of yer jurisdiction?”
The operator’s eyes narrowed.
Jake frowned. A Chinese triad in Los Angeles, Interpol agents in Holland, and now a specialized branch of the Italian military police? Lacey stopped pacing and he could tell she was on the edge of losing it. He understood the sentiment but reminded himself that staggering odds had never stopped him before, and he wasn’t about to give up now. Besides, he still had an ace up his sleeve. He tapped Send on his phone and waited for a reply.
Pete continued, “Why would a bleedin’ counterterrorist group be participating in the snatch and grab of Miss Lacey and her husband?”
The man refused to reply and Pete let out a long sigh, then nodded at Skylar. She pulled out a large hypodermic from the side pocket of her cargo pants.
The operator shifted in his seat.
“Oh, don’t ye worry about her, laddie. She’s only gonna give ye a wee cocktail. It won’t hurt ye none. All it’s really gonna do is make ye drowsy.”
The man’s eyes widened as Skylar rolled up his sleeve, squirted a bit of fluid from the needle, and poked it into a bulging vein on the inside of his elbow. She hesitated before depressing the plunger, looking to Pete.
Jake had to hand it to them. They put on a good show. His phone vibrated, he turned away to read the text—and his heart sank. It was Doc’s reply to his request to activate the tracker Jake had placed in the Asian woman’s purse:
It’s dead. Nothing I can do. It must have been discovered.
Jake’s captors had been unconscious when he’d placed the tracker, and he’d been careful to hide his actions from the camera he thought was in front of him—
He gasped, and his hand grabbed the pocket holding the specialized glasses.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. One of the guards during his interrogation had been wearing a pair. The man had been slumped on the floor from the aerosol drug Jake had released, but that didn’t mean the device had stopped transmitting. The man watching it all from his ivory tower was probably still laughing at Jake’s inept spy craft.
A surge of despair swept through him and attempted to grab a foothold but his brain wouldn’t allow it. Already it was recalculating, analyzing the situation, and sorting through options, discarding one after another. He couldn’t turn to Doc for further help, because Doc’s ties to DARPA and its resources would ultimately be too tempting for his friend to resist, and Jake was convinced that involving the US government would cause far more harm than good, especially with Geppetto’s mysterious ties around the world. He’d hoped the discovery of the glasses had been a major coup, but Marshall and Timmy, his normal go-to guys with the cyber know-how necessary to back-trace the signal, were both MIA. Which left him with a stunt crew and an actress as his only resources.
No, they were much more than that. They were warriors in their own right, with a loyalty toward one another that Jake embraced. They’d shown more heart in the last few hours than an army of soldiers. Sure, they didn’t have Marshall’s cyber genius or Tony’s spec-ops experience or Kenny’s skill with hi-tech toys, or even Jake’s previous super reflexes and telekinetic ability. But the way his brain kept hiccupping without the mini, his memory couldn’t be counted on anyway. They would just have to approach the problem in a different way.
Old school.
“Let’s keep this simple,” Pete said, as if hearing Jake’s thoughts. The Irishman crouched so he was eye to eye with the prisoner. “You’re gonna tell me where ye took Marshall, or I’m gonna let my partner here put ye to sleep.”
The guard’s confused expression suggested he didn’t understand the dire nature of the threat any more than Jake did.
“Oh, I forgot one thing,” Pete said, pulling a fragmentation grenade from his pocket. He yanked out the pin and stuffed it between the man’s legs.
“No! Per favore,” the prisoner cried out, frantically squeezing his legs together to prevent the grenade’s release lever from snapping open. Pete nodded his approval and removed his hand. The operator’s knees were shaking. His voice quaked. “But I know nothing.”
“Now that’s a damn shame,” Pete said, standing up. “Because if ye did, ye might be wakin’ up on the morn to find yerself all tight ’n’ cozy in yer own bed. Instead... ” He shrugged and nodded to Skylar, and she pressed the plunger to its hilt.
The operator gasped and his face turned white.
Pete and Skylar turned toward the staircase as if to leave. Lacey followed.
“Whatever you do,” Pete said over his shoulder. “Don’t fall asleep.”
“Aspetta. Wait. Please!”
The trio hesitated, and Jake caught the glint of a smile from Pete. He was turning to face the man when Lacey spun around and charged at him. She grabbed a fistful of collar in either hand and shoved backward until the wide-eyed operator was balanced on the two rear legs of t
he chair.
“Where did you take my husband?” she screamed.
“C-Ciampino airport!”
“What flight?”
“Private jet,” he said. “Terminal seven.”
“Where was it going?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Where?” she shouted, her face inches from his, her arms quivering at the effort to keep the chair from toppling.
“Please, signora,” the operator pleaded, his words tumbling over one another. “We were not told. On my mother I swear it. I was only following the colonel’s orders. Per favore!”
“You lie! You bastards took him and you—”
Lacey stopped when Jake rushed behind the man’s chair and propped it up just as she was about to shove it backward. “It’s okay, Lace. He’s telling the truth. I talked to the colonel.”
She frowned, her grip on the man’s collar loosening. “But—”
“It’s okay,” Jake repeated, trying his best to soothe her emotions with his mind as he eased the chair’s front legs back to the floor. “We’ll find him. I promise.”
Lacey stepped back, her gaze empty, her head shaking from side to side. “He’s gone,” she whispered. “He’s gone.”
Skylar draped an arm around her and guided her up the stairs. Jake followed, already planning their next move.
Private jet. Terminal seven.
Pete trudged after him.
“Wait,” the prisoner called out. “I told you everything. The grenade!”
At the top of the stairs, Pete flicked off the light switch. As he closed the door behind him, he said, “Night, night, laddie.”
The operator’s muffled shouts faded as they made their way to the garage.
“A dud?” Jake asked.
Pete winked. “Smoke ’n’ mirrors.”
An hour later Jake exited the flight service center at the Ciampino airport and slumped into the front passenger seat of the Peugeot. Lacey and Skylar were in the back and Pete was behind the wheel.
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