by Juno Rushdan
He knew every guy in security, made it his personal mission to make sure they also knew him. Whenever he spotted one at Rocky’s Bar, he always bought them a round of drinks. It was a lot harder to put down a buddy than a nameless target. Although he didn’t know which topside guard in the sniper’s nest had Gideon in the crosshairs, it was someone he’d interacted with.
That rapport might buy him a few precious seconds of hesitation on the sniper’s part.
Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted Willow on her knees, holding her ears, rocking. She’d been so close. So damn close to making it. At least she was positioned directly in front of the door, preventing the guards from engaging a full lockdown.
If they did, a mechanized, reinforced steel gate would slam down and block the door. Similar shutters would seal the windows, all from the inside. It prevented forced entry and stopped unwanted egress. But if they lowered it now, the steel gate would crush her body.
As long as they appeared to cooperate, the guards wouldn’t initiate a lockdown.
“Officer Stone.” Stewart, one of the guards at the desk, kept it formal, using a title and last name.
Not good. Even worse, both Stewart and the other guard, Peter, held Glocks pointed at Gideon.
“We’re going to need you to drop the bag and disarm,” Stewart continued.
Gideon scanned the top landing, assessing the location of the sniper.
Slowly, he removed his weapon from behind his back, finger on the trigger but barrel pointed skyward. He raised the rucksack with his other hand in the same manner of non-aggressive compliance.
He gripped the back of the rucksack with the open flap toward the security desk and pitched it with a jerk, momentum propelling the duct-taped extinguishers out of the bag. The cylinders struck the marble floor in front of the security desk with a strident metallic ring that clamored over the alarm, drawing the gazes of the guards.
Gideon fired, hitting one of the extinguishers. The canister exploded in a loud pop, a white billowy cloud flared, and at the same time, the sniper shot off two rounds.
The bullets slammed into Gideon’s chest with the jarring impact of a sledgehammer, knocking him to the floor.
He’d been hit hard, right over his heart, but his grip on the Maxim 9 hadn’t faltered, as if the pistol was an extension of his hand. Gasping for air, down on his side, he aimed for the second extinguisher and squeezed the trigger.
Another cloud of dry chemical powder mushroomed, providing cover.
Training and ruthless survival instincts kicked in. He ignored the aftershocks of pain rippling through his body, his brain focused entirely on doing whatever was necessary to get out of there alive with Willow. He rolled toward the door, away from the incoming volley he expected. Automatic fire peppered the ground where he had just been.
A buzzing, bell-like sound blasted in rapid succession. Red lights began flashing in concert with the bright white bursts. Lockdown protocol initiated.
The reinforced steel gate started to roll down. Ten seconds before it slammed closed.
Gideon shuffled to his feet. Raw agony exploded in his chest, bringing him to his knees.
Gears rattled overhead, drawing the thick sheet of steel toward the floor. In seconds, the armored security gate would crush Willow.
His mind unplugged from the pain, and adrenaline took over. He leapt into a crouched position, grabbed her, and steamrolled through the front doors.
A heavy clunk boomed behind them as the solid gate sealed shut. They hit the rough concrete outside.
Gideon winced from taking the full force of the impact and Willow’s weight on his torso. Clutching her against his body, his primal awareness surged, distracting him for a heartbeat.
In five minutes, the guards would reset the system, lifting the gate, and a quick response force would be on their asses.
God, his chest hurt, but they had to keep moving. He lumbered to his feet, hauling in an agonizing breath, and kept a solid grip on Willow. The steel shutter door dampened the alarm, but the noise still must’ve been too loud outside, since she kept her hands plastered over her ears and her eyes closed.
They staggered down the front steps, him doing his best to help her along. His vision wavered. He slipped, nearly dropping to a knee. Shit. Those bullets hurt like a son of a bitch, making Willow’s small frame against him feel heavier than it should. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let the tidal wave of pain swamp him.
As they drew toward the car, she came back to herself, opening her eyes. She hooked an arm around his torso, slipping under his shoulder, propping him upright.
She hit the key fob, unlocking the doors.
He hustled to the driver’s side, started the car, and helped her up into the seat. Before she’d shut the door, he jerked the car in gear and peeled out of the parking lot. The tires screamed against the hot asphalt. He wheeled around the corner toward the road leading to the front gate and slammed on the brakes.
Security lockdown triggered the bollards to pop up—a series of stainless-steel pillars, four feet high, six inches in diameter. No vehicle could get through those. Not even a Mack truck. And even if they found a way, the gate at the entrance would be sealed tight.
He punched the Jeep in reverse and railed the wheel, whipping the car in a tight one-eighty J-turn. Then he shifted to forward gear and stamped the gas. He took the road toward the back side of the compound.
Cutting a hard right, he narrowly avoided plowing into a bollard and shot up onto the grass berm. The car bumped and rocked from the change in terrain. Willow shot him an anxious glance, her hands flinging out to brace against the dash and door.
Barreling over the grassy median, he headed behind the main building to the warehouse, where they stored mission vehicles and the AVX high-speed helicopter. Sanborn had persuaded the head of the Senate Select Intelligence Committee to let the Gray Box have a military prototype rather than shipping the sleek, low-drag aircraft to a museum to sit idle.
He wove past a huge oak and swerved to avoid plowing into a sycamore. Bypassing the small patch of concrete for parking, he sped to the door. “Let’s go.” He jerked the car into park.
Without waiting for Willow, Gideon jumped out and ran to the warehouse door, hissing through the agony in his body. He stabbed the code on the digital lock. Seven digits. He was one of four to receive the weekly changes in the updated codes, since he could pilot the chopper.
A red light blinked and the lock beeped. Crap.
The door didn’t open. Security lockdown wasn’t linked to the warehouse door. It should’ve opened.
He cleared his mind, concentrated on the last set of numbers and tried again.
Green light. The lock clinked. He yanked the door open as Willow ran up behind him.
“See those hangar doors?” He pointed to the massive steel doors, wide enough to get a semi through. “There’s a big black button on the side wall that opens them. Hit it and meet me in the helicopter. I’ll get it started.”
Her face was pale, hazel eyes glassy, and her body trembled. He wanted to haul her into his arms, reassure her they’d get through this if they kept moving. Hesitation could get them killed.
Something fired through her. Resolve. Purpose. Maybe good ol’ grit. She straightened before he said anything else, expression hardening, and took off running toward the hangar doors.
Gideon raced past a black fleet of bulletproof SUVS to the AVX. Hopping inside, he settled into the leather seat with the long cyclic control stick between his legs. He’d learned to fly at a CIA black site in Tangier before Sanborn recruited him. Flight startup procedures came to him like muscle memory. He switched on the master fuel and flipped the hydraulics up. Scanning the console overhead, he ensured all fuses were in and toggled the battery on.
The hangar doors clattered open. He checked his watch. Lockdown would end any
second, and then topside security and his team would be bearing down on them, guns hot.
Time was an enemy. He adjusted the throttle, gauges zeroed.
His gaze locked on Willow as she cut in front of the helicopter and climbed into the seat. “Can you handle the sound of the chopper?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“Check your side for a headset. It’ll reduce the noise.”
She snatched a headset and put it on. He grabbed the lever of the collective control mounted on the left side of his seat and pressed the red start button. The engine wound up with a keening sound.
While they waited for the throttle to reach one hundred percent rpm, he helped her with the multiple buckles of the seatbelt and strapped himself in. He threw on a headset in case she needed to talk to him.
One hundred percent rpm. Finally.
He pulled up on the collective to lift off. The wheels cleared, and he pushed the cyclic stick between his thighs, cruising out of the hangar. He steered the chopper up, climbing altitude.
Five figures sprinted from the main building below. Sharp pings echoed from the bullets ricocheting off the helicopter. The tail of the helo swung violently from side to side.
Lucky a bullet didn’t hit the fuel tank or a rotor.
He tightened his grip on the control handles to steady the copter and pitched to clear the compound. Good to know how far his friends might go, but getting shot down by one of his own wasn’t part of his half-baked plan.
Using the tail rotor pedals, Gideon rolled the helicopter in a hard left over the freeway.
“They can disable the chopper while we’re in the air,” Willow said.
Stunned, he threw her a wary glance. “I had no idea that could be done.”
“Most don’t. You have to hack into the AVX system and input override control codes.”
“Who in the Gray Box can do that?”
“Sanborn knows it can be done. Daniel Cutter is capable of executing it.”
“Damn it to hell.” Falling from the sky in a disabled helo and crashing into the freeway wasn’t on his top ten list of ways to go.
The Tysons Corner Center mall had a parking garage and wasn’t far. They could land on the uncovered top level. This time of day, it’d be vacant.
On the way, he shared everything he knew. Details of the offshore account, timing of when it was opened, the not-so-coincidental correlation to his late wife’s accident, Willow’s failed polygraph, the heat Sanborn was under. The possibility of a whitewash.
When he’d finished taking a wrecking ball to her life, she looked dazed, face ashen, arms clenched around herself. He set the chopper down on the top level of the multistory garage. It was empty as he’d expected. He unbuckled her harness to help her hurry along, but she stared straight ahead, unblinking.
If she went into shock, they were screwed.
“Willow.” He caressed her cheek, aching to erase the sudden insanity engulfing her life.
An unnamed longing beat at his chest—the primal need for something deeper than physical pleasure with this woman, something greater than the instinct to protect her. The inclination was undeniably dangerous.
“Willow,” he said again, more firmly.
She blinked, snapping out of her trance. Her hazel eyes found him.
“You with me?”
Grasping her pearls like a lifeline, she nodded.
“We’ve got to move.” He wished there was time to comfort her, but it wouldn’t take the Gray Box long to track them.
They hopped out, meeting in front of the helicopter. While scoping out the location of security cameras, he offered his hand. Her delicate fingers wrapped around his, and his body tightened at the shocking warmth, the innocent way she blindly trusted him.
He couldn’t fail her.
They hustled down four flights of stairs. The mall’s doors opened before the stores at seven thirty for walkers. College kids flocked to the Starbucks with its early hours and free Wi-Fi, and they tended to drive cheap beaters prime for stealing.
He prowled for a car easy to hotwire.
Isolated at the end of a row, an old Ford looked good. They made a beeline for it. Empty coffee cups and brown fast-food napkins littered the back seat. The front passenger window was cracked low enough for a small hand to get through.
“Stick your arm through the window and pull up the little black knob.”
“We’re stealing someone’s car?”
“Borrowing.”
Brow furrowed, she stuck her arm through the crack in the window. Even on her tiptoes, she couldn’t reach the knob.
“I’m going to lift you, okay?” He scanned the parking garage. Still alone.
Once she nodded, he put his hands on her hips and lifted. A vicious twinge ripped into his chest from where the bullets had struck the vest. She grasped the knob and pulled, unlocking the door. She scooted inside to the driver’s seat, unlocked the other door, and climbed back to the passenger’s side as Gideon hustled around the car.
He jumped in and removed the panel of the steering column. Glancing around, he felt for the right wires, stripped the tips, and tried them until he sparked the engine and the beater started.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“We have to make a couple of stops. Then we’re going to see a friend about passports.”
She clutched her purse, face riddled with worry.
“I’ll keep you safe and we’ll figure out who’s framing you. Everything will be okay.”
He left out the part about how things would get a hell of a lot worse before they got better.
13
Gray Box Headquarters, Northern Virginia
Friday, July 5, 10:23 a.m. EDT
Chaotic chatter filled the halls. Every cubicle buzzed. Black Ops was a flurry of activity in the wake of one of their own violating protocol and breaching the lockdown.
Cobalt had waited and waited, but daring to delay a minute longer was suicide. Rushing from the facility immediately after the lockdown ended would’ve drawn attention and raised dangerous questions, but the phone call had to be made. Now.
Everyone was focused on Stone and Harper. No one noticed Cobalt slip into the elevator.
None of the horrible, ugly things Cobalt had done had been easy to pull off or stomach. Most orders involved passing along information, and following those instructions was habit at this point—an ingrained routine. No thought, just action.
Other orders, such as sabotaging Harper’s brake line, had left Cobalt’s mouth dry and heart palpitating in a wild streak like a train about to derail. Endless hours spent wide awake at night, replaying deeds stained in blood…but that was good. Caring meant one still had a soul.
A soul that was going to burn in hell.
Buck up!
The elevator doors opened on the ground level. Cobalt strode off as if the world wasn’t in a tailspin with everything about to crash and burn. White dust blanketed the concrete floor and marble security desk. A choking odor of ammonia permeated the lobby.
Stone had no clue he’d been spotted taking the fire extinguisher off the wall and ducking into the elevator with Harper. If I’d called security sooner, this disaster could’ve been averted and the two of them detained. The plan was falling apart, collapsing in on itself.
Harper had been chosen with time and care. The perfect patsy.
After reality sank in that there was no way out of working for Daedalus—besides in a body bag—a scapegoat had to be found for a rainy day. Boy oh boy, it was pouring now.
If Harper had died in her car yesterday, everything would be as it should today.
In the event the analyst survived, measures were in place to eliminate her while she was held for interrogation. Except Cobalt had no contingency plan for Harper escaping.
&n
bsp; Damn it! Every minute ticking by with Harper and Stone on the run was one minute closer to Cobalt getting a bullet in the back of the head.
Stone’s interference couldn’t have been anticipated. No link between him and the girl existed, much less anything that would drive him to make such a risky move to help her.
Daedalus won’t care to hear about circumstances beyond my control.
But he would care that Gideon Stone had meddled.
The security guards were so wrapped up cursing and kicking themselves for letting Harper and Stone escape that they paid no attention as Cobalt left the building. Cobalt strolled to the car, hopped inside, and took the burner phone from the glove compartment.
What if he wouldn’t help? What if he wanted to eliminate all loose ends instead?
I’m not a loose end. Not yet. I still have value. He’ll help me.
Cobalt dialed the number, letting calm reason prevail over panic. The phone rang.
“Yes.” Daedalus’s voice carried a chilling current of power.
“Willow Harper survived the car accident. They found the offshore account and were about to hold her, but a field officer helped her escape from the facility before I could get the guards to initiate a lockdown. Gideon Stone.”
“Stone? How do I know the name?”
“He was the one sent to terminate you.”
Two years ago, the Gray Box had received a tip from one of their CIs—confidential informant—who was a major government contractor. A device that could compromise certain government security measures was going to be sold to a man known as Daedalus—an information broker dealing in counterintelligence and corporate espionage.
A man who stayed so well hidden, he was more myth than reality.
Daedalus had already been on the Gray Box radar. They’d wanted to bag him for years but had no idea what he looked like or how to find him.
Cobalt had managed to alter enough mission details to lead Stone to kill the man Daedalus met for the exchange. Still, Stone had unknowingly seen the real Daedalus, making the operative a loose end. Cobalt had followed the subsequent instructions down to the finest detail, tampering with Stone’s brake line and seat belt. But his wife had ruined everything by taking his truck. A second attempt on Stone’s life would’ve raised red flags.
