by Carl Rackman
Matt remembered – the tiny transmitter injected into his right buttock when he began courier work. It needed replacing every five years, but luckily the chips were getting smaller as technology improved.
“If the leak is on the FBI side, they’ll have to use facial recognition to spot you now. If it’s coming from the Department, they may already have the RFID code – in which case they’ll be able to track you,” Mailman continued.
That wasn’t good news for Matt. “Oh, come on!”
“Sorry, fella. Can’t take any chances.”
He turned another corner and stopped the van by a row of industrial storage units near the docks. He set the gearshift to park and pulled the big parking brake lever. He joined Matt in the back of the truck and produced a leather pouch with several lock picks inside. The cuffs were off Matt’s hands in seconds. He noticed the man was wearing extremely sheer, thin gloves. That was the appearance of cleanliness agent Kevin James had seen, prompting him to react.
“Okay, drop ‘em and lie on the floor. Won’t take a minute!”
Matt spent a very painful few minutes as his new friend stabbed around in his butt cheek until he’d retrieved the small chip. He wadded paper towels around the cut before applying a dab of zinc oxide cream and a sticky pad dressing.
“Don’t worry, mate. We’ll stitch it up properly at the safe house,” he offered after he’d finished.
Mailman crushed the chip into powder on the truck’s flatbed while Matt picked himself up. “Okay, let’s put a few more miles between us. Then we’ll hit the subway.”
Matt couldn’t keep calling him Mailman. “Since we’re intimate now, what’s your name?”
“You can call me Terry. But don’t get any ideas.” He started the engine and pulled out into the light traffic.
Matt laughed, the tension releasing for the first time. It looked as though he was getting out of this after all. “What’s this all about, Terry? Why was I set up?”
Terry drove on for a few seconds before answering, “That chip is a copy of some data that was passed to us by…well, let’s just say it was a concerned American citizen.
“She sent it to a contact in the UK who just happens to do some work for us from time to time, like you. When she called the next morning saying her life was in danger, we did a little digging. Her entire research team died mysteriously overnight. So we took her off the streets until we can bring her in quietly.”
“So what’s on the data card?”
“Our guys took one look at it. Someone higher up decided it needed to come back to our friends over here. After what just went down, we might need to reassess our position.” He chuckled. “I hope our lady friend will be able to make sense of it all when we get her back to our people. It takes time to arrange the required credentials, so we’ll be getting you both out in the next week.”
Terry parked up again in a quiet alley. He rose from his seat and joined Matt in the back of the mail van.
“There’s a bag of clothes behind you. I guessed the sizes, but you need to get out of that uniform before we go out in public again.”
Both men quickly changed into standard jeans, T-shirts and work jackets. Matt put on a grubby baseball cap.
Terry popped open the clasps on Iron Barbie’s briefcase and rummaged through the stacked files until he found the folded plastic evidence bag with the SD card inside. He held it to the light from the van windows before folding it tight and tucking it into a concealed inside pocket of his trousers.
“Okay, Matt. We’re good to go. I’m going to get you and this information to a safe place until we can work out what the hell is going on.”
Chapter Eleven
Thursday, 8th September 2016
Corner of Canal St and Broadway, NYC
Brad woke with a pounding headache. The sun was bright in his eyes; he felt cold. He was lying on a paramedic’s gurney in the street where the bum had taken them by surprise. Still in his field of vision, painfully silhouetted by the sunlight, he saw the tall figure of Breecker striding back and forth as she spoke insistently into her phone. She had taken on an altogether less forgiving aspect than when they’d first met; he feared he might have misjudged the woman, to his detriment.
He tried to sit up, but his head throbbed in protest; nevertheless, he got himself up on his elbows and attempted to turn his legs round to sit up properly.
A concerned emergency medical technician came over and said, “Sir, you have to remain—”
“Ma’am, sorry, but I have to get back to work.”
“Sir, you are not going anywhere.”
He brushed her off and rose unsteadily to his feet. The sunlight reflecting from a window across the street nearly made him faint with pain.
“Look… I’m fine…” He shielded his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose trying to make the pain stop, but the sharp jangle of fresh pains in his forehead told him he probably shouldn’t have.
“Barnes!” Breecker came over after putting the phone back into her jacket pocket.
As he squinted at her, he could see the perfect skin of her cheeks now marred by fresh red grazes, presumably from the airbag. Other than that, she seemed entirely unscathed.
“You’ve been out for a good half-hour! God, look at you! Can you still walk?”
“Sure… I’m fine.”
She looked uncertain before walking him over to an EMS ambulance and standing him in front of the driver’s mirror.
Brad stared, his eyes practically watering from his headache. He looked bad. He had several purplish bruises on his cheeks and a big one across his forehead, just above his nose, the broken skin now patched up with surgical tape.
“You took your seatbelt off. Never do that.” Breecker was disappointed in him.
“You could have tried not to crash.”
“Were you even there?” She was actually angry. To be fair, she hadn’t been a picture of happiness since they left the airport.
Brad tried to change the subject. “Where’s our guy?”
She huffed before saying, “They took off in a mail van. It looked pre-planned. They dumped the van up on West Forty-Ninth Street. We’ve got PD units and aerial support looking for them, but I think they took the subway. Transit police are monitoring the video surveillance, so I’m heading over there now. Sit this one out, Barnes.”
“No way.”
“I don’t want you slowing me down.”
Brad had had enough of her attitude. “You can leave me behind if you can outrun me. Until then, we’re partners. Now, where’s your damn car?”
She pointed silently to her newly commandeered vehicle, a Bureau Crown Vic police car with high mileage. She gave him a tight-mouthed look, as if blaming him for the loss of her shiny Charger.
There was no timidity in her driving this time. Breecker had the lights and sirens on and floored it, braking hard at intersections, then flooring it again as she swept through. It was not a comfortable ride for Brad. He gasped in pain several times, but he was determined not to give in.
Less than twenty minutes later they were at the rail control centre where Breecker was remonstrating with a surly Transit Authority staffer to gain access to the surveillance room.
Brad was impressed the young supervisor managed to last almost a minute under Breecker’s overpowering intimidation. It was a true credit to the mindless indoctrination that modern private corporations called training.
It took about fifteen minutes to load the facial recognition feed with Ramprakash’s face. This was an up-to-date HD image as his photo was taken every time he visited the States.
They had a hit almost immediately; it was almost too good to be true. The fugitives were travelling east on the M Line past Essex Street. They were definitely heading off Manhattan towards Queens.
Breecker phoned it in and listened intently. She seemed to receive a long set of instructions.
“Yes, sir. I understand.” She shot Brad a look, which he didn’t really like and i
t made him squirm slightly. After she hung up, she said, “Okay, Barnes. There’s a chopper coming to pick me up at the East River. I know where they’re headed. This is your last chance to get off the ride because I don’t carry passengers.”
This burned Brad more than the blinding headache. “Bring it on, Breecker.”
She didn’t smile. “Better lock and load – I’m going to hold you to your word.”
She remembered to thank the supervisor before stalking out of the surveillance room, her long-legged strides drawing surreptitious looks as she went.
Brad seemed to hop in her wake like a crippled toad, trying vainly to live up to his billing, but feeling less adequate by the minute.
He finally realised Breecker had suckered him completely. The whole thing with the GPS, her timid driving, the disarming stories, even her arresting appearance – it was all a sham to draw him into a trap. She was a major league hard-ass who was going to take him apart piece by piece at the OIG review. He realised, far too late, that ADC Morrison was intending to serve him up as a piece of sexist trash as an example to the others. Special Agent Diane Breecker was the Bureau poster girl who was going to play executioner. He contemplated breaking off the pursuit and going up to the hospital a beaten man, but the diminishing bubble of male pride Breecker pricked with each disparaging glance wouldn’t let him.
“Right behind you, Agent Breecker.” He smiled brightly, even though it hurt like hell.
The East River heliport sat at the water’s edge flanked by parking lots and overlooked by the thundering noise of FDR Drive.
Brad and Breecker stood at the head of the landing pad wearing bulky, uncomfortable ballistic vests with bold white ‘FBI’ lettering across the front and back.
Brad’s head was pounding and his face hurt, but he refused to bow to the pain and discomfort. He was slightly hunched, having sustained some bruising to the chest and midriff in the crash; Breecker now seemed to tower above him. He felt their roles had been gradually and completely reversed – he was the weaker partner all round.
“Look sharp, Barnes. These guys are likely to be armed and dangerous.”
“The homeless guy? He had us cold. He didn’t try to kill us.”
“He might be different when he’s cornered.”
“You think we’re going to corner them on the subway? In public? You think that’s the right move, Breecker?”
“Of course not. But we’ll be waiting for them at their safe house near JFK. Location just came through intel.”
“Intel? Do we know who these guys are?”
She evaded the question. “I trust the intel.”
“So what’s the play, Breecker?”
“We pick our way in. Then we take blocking positions and wait. We make the arrests when they’re both in the house. Backup will be on scene.”
“Who’s the backup?”
“NYPD SWAT Team. Good operators.”
Brad shrugged. “Sounds good. What can possibly go wrong?”
Breecker sniffed. “Almost everything about it. That’s why I want you out of my way. Let me make the collar. You just provide cover, okay?”
Brad had to bite his tongue. He figured that, even injured, he was a better operator in a close-quarters fight than Breecker could ever hope to be.
“Where are they inserting us?” he asked.
“Parking lot by the Aqueduct Racetrack. There’s an underpass and subway access underneath the railroad track, so we can covertly access their safe house from the rear. The chopper should be long gone before they get there.”
Brad nodded just as he heard the dull thudding of the chopper approaching from the Manhattan side.
The dark blue helicopter appeared over the FDR raised freeway. It was a standard NYPD aerial unit, a French-built Twin Squirrel. It was a good choice that wouldn’t raise suspicions.
They braced against the blizzard of wind and dust as it settled on the stand in front of them.
The agents ducked as they ran for the chopper. Breecker climbed in first, smoothing her flapping skirt over her legs once seated and managing to fold her tall frame into the small helicopter.
Brad swung himself in with a practiced move, but winced in pain as it strained his injured muscles. Once again he cursed his pride, but then figured it wouldn’t have made any difference to the final outcome. He was probably on borrowed time, so he might as well enjoy his last fun day out.
He strapped himself in and pulled on a headset. After he gave the thumbs up sign, the helicopter immediately began to lift.
Brad had a momentary flashback to the Roswell group’s building in Brooklyn - the last time he had been in a helicopter. He shivered as once again he saw the grey-skinned SWAT team bodies with their necks wrung.
“Stay focused, Barnes.” Breecker’s maddening voice came through his headphones. It was as if she was deliberately trying to rattle him.
He just nodded across to her and looked out of the window.
Is it me? He seriously contemplated the question. Perhaps he did have a problem when it came to women. Perhaps he subconsciously resented the living women he knew because they were alive and Helen was dead. Or perhaps he idealised Helen because she was dead and looked down on all other women because they would never measure up. Or perhaps he was just unlucky, always saying the wrong thing, coming across as a patronising Neanderthal when he was trying to be accommodating. He was sure the inevitable psych evaluation would answer these questions for him. Either way, it looked as though his career at the Bureau was about to plateau at best, or finish at worst.
He shook these thoughts from his head as best he could. The flight was short. He could already feel the small helicopter descending.
“Here comes your stop, Agents. Two minutes.” The NYPD observer gestured towards the wide oval expanse of the racetrack ahead. The vast, empty car park lay snug against the Metro line tracks just as Breecker had said.
“Okay, Barnes? This is it. On my lead.” Breecker swung her long legs into the dismount position. They were sleek and defined with tight musculature.
Brad tried hard not to look knowing she was probably monitoring his every glance, even in the heat of battle. But then he thought, what the hell. He did look before checking his sidearm one more time and placing it in its concealed holster inside the back of his vest. Showtime.
The chopper touched down in the vast, empty parking lot near the subway line which ran along the perimeter. As soon as the agents were clear, the aircraft lifted off and turned away from the area. It remained low until clear to the north where its noise quickly faded.
Breecker led them at a fast jog to the underpass. They hustled past a couple of kids on bikes who stared at their rapid passage with eyes like saucers.
They emerged into an open grassy area backing on to a low-rise sprawl of houses. Opportunistic drivers had parked their cars at all angles on the open ground taking advantage of the free parking right next to the Metro station.
Breecker headed for a chain-link fence around an open grassy area. It backed onto the gardens of a nearby row of houses. She vaulted the fence in one movement, glancing back to see if Brad had followed.
Brad’s injuries shrilled in pain as he copied her move. He was lagging well behind her by the time he sidled up to the garden fence behind their objective.
Backed against a garage with her weapon drawn, Breecker peered carefully around the side scanning the house for signs of occupants. She then beckoned Brad to follow her with a flick of her head as he belatedly arrived. Her ponytail bobbed in her wake as she slipped around the edge of the garage and crouched on her haunches to approach the house itself.
Brad crouched too, his bruised shins screaming at him to stop.
Breecker peered through the corner of a window and finally moved towards the back door, which was covered by a mesh screen frame.
As Brad moved over to her, she was carefully inspecting the edge of the door and then spotted what she was looking for – a telltale feather us
ed as an entry checker. It was inserted between the screen door and the frame. An incautious burglar would have let it fall and betrayed his entry. Breecker would do no such thing. She caught the feather and began to pick the door lock beyond the screen. Once again, she carefully checked both sides of the door and found another telltale sign – a transparent piece of sticky tape wrapped around the door frame holding a hair in place.
Brad was impressed. This was the safe house all right.
She opened the door carefully and noted there was no intruder alarm.
Brad entered cautiously, then stood aside as Breecker replaced the feather and hair before locking the door behind them. They were in.
Breecker drew her gun and crept quickly through the kitchen. She motioned Brad to keep quiet as he followed. She cupped her ear and mouthed, “Listen.”
Brad could hear the muted sounds of a TV coming from the front room.
Breecker crept into the corridor in a low crouch.
Brad tried to follow, but his leg cramped. He slumped to the floor making an obvious scuffing sound. He desperately gritted his teeth against the pain.
Breecker just glared at him when a woman’s voice spoke from the front room.
“Who’s there? Terry? Is that you?”
Breecker exploded from her crouched position and burst into the room. “Federal Agents! Don’t move!”
Brad drew his Glock pistol and hobbled along the corridor. He checked the bathroom before leaning into the living room.
Breecker crouched against the right hand wall, her gun covering a pleasant-looking, very slim blonde woman with a California tan who was cowering on the sofa with her hands raised. Her fearful eyes took in Brad as he lurched into the room.
“Clear.” It sounded lame after his mistake, but he said it anyway.
He covered the woman while Breecker put away her gun and began to expertly frisk her. She was clean, apart from a burner phone. Breecker unlocked it and checked the call history. There was only one number listed.
