by Carl Rackman
“Is this Terry’s number?”
The woman on the sofa paused, but then nodded.
“And you are?”
Callie stared at the aggressive, tall woman frightening the life out of her. Terry warned her she might be found, but he told her to say nothing and to trust no one – except him. She glanced nervously at the other agent. He was injured and looked like he’d been in a fight. Although he was the one pointing a gun at her, she was far more scared of the woman.
“Your name, ma’am! Identify yourself!”
Callie desperately tried to remember her cover name. “My–my name is Dorothy Smith. I’m British.” Callie wasn’t bad at British accents owing to her many trips to see Robbie over the years. It didn’t sound bad.
The woman snorted in derision. “Nice try, ‘Dorothy’. You get a tan like that living in London? I don’t think so.”
“I beg your pardon?” Callie tried to keep her nerve, but the woman was very intimidating.
“Okay, Dorothy, we’re going to wait for your friend to arrive, then you’ll be able to tell me a little more, I hope.”
Brad felt sorry for the woman. She was clearly not Dorothy Smith, but he guessed she might be the wife or girlfriend of the man they were looking for. She looked scared out of her wits.
Breecker took out her radio and keyed it twice. An answering double squelch came from the speaker.
“Okay, let’s sit tight, Barnes. You stay over in that corner under the window. I’ll cover this room from behind the sofa. I can cover both entrances that way. You should be invisible from the outside as long as you stay where you are.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The words came out almost unbidden; Brad kicked himself again.
Breecker just gave him an irritated look as if to say, Jerk!
He tried to settle himself as best he could. His muscles still groaned, his side hurt, his ribs ached, but most of all his head was pounding. The cuts and bruises on his face were stiffening and protested at virtually any stress; he didn’t feel like smiling anyway.
They all sat in silence with only the TV for company, showing an inane documentary about how the Brooklyn Bridge was built. For Brad it merely added to his excruciating discomfort.
After twenty minutes, a clear double squelch sounded from Breecker’s radio.
“Mirage,” she almost whispered.
“Mirage, Sharkfin. Two marks approaching the house from the front. ETA less than one minute.”
The words were barely perceptible to Brad, only about ten feet away from her in the silent house. He tensed, trying to keep the pain from shrouding his vision. The call signs he heard Breecker use were definitely not standard Bureau or NYPD protocol. He wondered where Breecker was getting her intel. It just added to his unease.
He tried to stretch his legs one at a time, but his injured right leg buckled under the strain of supporting his weight – he slumped noisily to the floor. He burned with pain and embarrassment; he was coming off as a klutzy flatfoot around the accomplished Breecker.
Breecker, however, said nothing.
The shadows of two men appeared at the frosted window of the front door. One, probably the homeless guy, stooped to examine the doorway, and then moved around the side of the house crouching past the front windows.
Brad crushed himself against the wall making himself invisible to anyone looking inside. He then heard the scratching of footsteps on the gravel outside the back door as the man inspected the safety triggers.
Brad froze, holding his breath as the man opened the door and watched the feather drop to the floor. He held his Glock ready; he felt Breecker’s tension as she prepared to round the corner if the guy came in through the back.
Seemingly satisfied, the man left the door and came around the house again. He ducked under the windows until he reappeared as a shadow through the frosted glass alongside the other man, who hadn’t moved.
The key scratched in the lock and turned, causing the door to open.
The man peered cautiously in, unarmed, searching out the woman on the sofa. He frowned in concern and took just a second to make his decision.
“This ain’t good. Come on, Callie, we need to go, right now!” he ordered.
The woman on the sofa shook her head helplessly at Terry trying to warn him. She breathed in to call out when Breecker suddenly sprang from behind the sofa shouting at the men to freeze.
The man did and stared at the woman in surprise.
Brad recognised him immediately as the homeless guy.
“Just walk in slowly and close the door, mate.” Breecker put on a perfect English accent.
Brad blinked in disbelief.
The man smiled with his hands up. He beckoned the other guy in. It was Ramprakash, the pilot from Newark.
“Well played, ma’am. What are you doing here?”
“Both of you, sit on the sofa next to her.”
Brad kept them covered after they were seated.
Breecker stepped out of the room into the corridor behind him. She pulled out her radio again and made a terse call. “Sharkfin, it’s Mirage. Over.”
The radio hissed, but Brad could still hear it.
“Go ahead, Mirage. Over.”
“The gang’s all here. Instructions? Over.”
“Secure the data. Then you need to make a clean departure. Over.”
“Confirm, over?”
“No loose ends. Sharkfin out.”
Brad’s phone suddenly buzzed. He eased it from his pocket while still covering the prisoners on the sofa.
Agent Barnes. Code Red. Special Agent Diane Breecker found dead by Parks Service personnel in Connecticut. Arrest and detain impostor immediately. Backup inbound. Keep phone on for location.
He looked up, but it was too late.
Callie looked up when the agent’s phone buzzed. She watched him pull it from his pocket without taking his eyes off them. He glanced down, but then gave the screen his full attention. At the same time, she heard the woman finish murmuring in the corridor. She stepped out, gun drawn. It had a silencer attached to it, just like in the movies. Without a word of warning she fired two rapid shots. There was no loud bang, but Callie leapt in shock as the bullets snapped Terry’s head back like it was on an elastic spindle. Blood flew from the sudden violence and splattered up the walls and door. Droplets hit her face.
Callie screamed. She clasped her hands to her mouth, her body heaving as she breathed in panicked, uncontrolled gasps.
The woman didn’t even flinch. She shifted her aim to the handsome guy who had arrived with Terry.
The man’s lips were curled back from his teeth in terror, his eyes wide with shock, both hands raised in a reflex action. He remained frozen as Terry’s bloodied head flopped into his lap and the rest of his body slid down the cushions and onto the floor.
Callie still drew deep gasps of breath in horror.
Matt had never been so petrified in his life. They had just walked from the subway station where Terry told him about the woman he was trying to get back to Britain. Apparently she was the only person who could verify the data Matt had brought in. They were looking forward to pizza, beers and a good night’s sleep.
But Terry was suddenly gone, slumped on the floor, his head a bloodied mess. Now Iron Barbie from the airport, who had just murdered Terry in cold blood, was drawing down on Matt himself.
His heart beat like a hammer. He thought of all the things he wanted to do with his life, even as he feared it would be over in the next second.
He stared fixedly at the gun and called out to Kevin James who was drawing his own gun again, “Do something, mate!”
The woman didn’t flinch, but she didn’t pull the trigger either.
“Sit tight, Fly Boy. Keep your mouth shut,” she ordered.
Matt almost fainted with relief. He remained next to the nice-looking forty-something lady on the sofa. She reminded him a lot of Julie, the blonde cabin manager with whom he’d flown here mere hours ago. It felt l
ike a lifetime away.
The woman was terrified, but holding it together well. She took his hand and squeezed it tight. He squeezed back, unsure what their mutual fate was likely to be. Prisoners? Hostages? Or possibly just murder victims? For whatever reason, perhaps her similarity to Julie, someone pleasant and familiar, he pinned his hopes for survival on her and drew a little closer.
Brad pointed his own weapon at Breecker, or whoever she was. She had just shot an unarmed man in cold blood without a warning. He couldn’t believe his bad luck - another unlawful killing on his watch. This time Brad had witnessed it with his own eyes.
At least she wasn’t a real agent – he felt a perverse relief that she wouldn’t be carrying out an evaluation on him after all.
He covered her until he was sure she wasn’t going to shoot anyone else. “Put down your weapon, lady.”
The woman he knew as Breecker didn’t speak, but she didn’t seem to be listening either.
“I said, put down your weapon!”
She finally turned to look at him but didn’t lower her gun.
“Put it down or I’ll shoot. I know you’re not Agent Breecker.” He sidled round the room, still keeping her covered, trying to keep his firing angle clear of the civilians bunched closely on the sofa who were trying to shuffle away from the dead man.
“Okay, Barnes! Keep your panties on.” She slowly turned and lowered her gun before holding it out from her body.
Brad stepped forward and took it from her with just his forefinger and thumb.
She lowered her hands to her sides. She was far too calm for Brad’s liking.
He motioned for her to sit in the other armchair. He kept his weapon trained on her and placed her gun on the TV stand on the other side of the room.
She chuckled, looking up at him intently with her cold blue eyes. She crossed her long legs in a languid movement and seemed inexplicably relaxed.
“Barnes, SWAT isn’t coming. It’s just you and me,” she said.
Brad didn’t have time for this. His pulse was rising. The smell of blood was strong. The pounding in his bruised face and limbs was getting worse.
He motioned to the man and woman on the sofa to get up. “Both of you, wait outside. Assistance is coming. You’ll be safe, I promise.”
They nervously got up and went outside clutching each another tightly. The pilot glanced at Barnes as he shuffled past; the woman never took her eyes off ‘Breecker’.
As the prisoners opened the front door, Brad heard distant sirens and the buzzing of a helicopter.
“Sorry, lady. SWAT is coming. We found the real Agent Breecker,” said Brad.
She just continued to stare at him impassively – her eyes expressionless like a cat.
“Now, who were you talking to? Who are you working for?” he asked.
“Here’s the radio, Barnes. You can call them.”
He walked over to take the radio. He didn't really register what happened next, but in a split second he was in serious pain and flat on his back with Breecker's foot on his neck. She was pointing his own gun at his face.
“Seriously, Barnes. You really are a pussy.” She sounded disappointed.
“Breecker…” He gasped, barely able to draw breath.
“I left Diane Breecker in the trunk of a rental car on Sherwood Island this morning.” Her voice was cold.
Brad stopped struggling, disbelieving. “What…what about Ferguson? The Bureau—”
“I spoke to him on the phone. He left me the paperwork to pick up at the front desk. He never saw me. Nobody at the Bureau did. Except you, of course.”
“Who…who are you?”
She sighed, almost sympathetically; her cold eyes actually softened for a second. “Barnes. You’re really a good guy. A real boy scout, you know that? I tried to tell you not to come, but you’re a stubborn sonofabitch. Now I’ve got a chopper to catch, and I believe they’re only expecting one passenger. That’s actually a shame ‘cause I was beginning to like you. Goodbye, sweetie.”
“No! No, please! Don’t—”
Brad saw the flash deep inside the gun muzzle suppressor, felt the hot blast on his face, the burnt powder pricking his eyes. He even saw the blur of the bullet as it came towards him. Then he felt a shattering blow to his head, as if he’d been hit by a baseball bat; there was nothing but a bright white flash from behind his eyes and a bloom of pressure inside his brain.
Then, only silence.
Chapter Twelve
Brad suddenly awoke.
He was awake, but not in a literal sense. His vision took in the ceiling of that small house in Queens, but his perception was hypersensitive. The colours and sounds of his environment seemed to flow through him rather than sensing them through his eyes and ears. Everything was vivid to a supercharged degree.
He didn’t need to turn his head to see around himself, so he simply chose to focus his perception on what he wanted, as if he could see everything in all directions at once. He was completely unencumbered by any physical sense of limitation.
He found himself near the ceiling looking down at a scene that profoundly disgusted him. The tall woman, the one he knew as Breecker, was looking down at his body. He was surprised by how much blood surrounded the floor around his head. He was also shocked at how old he looked.
The woman looked at his body for a moment longer before dropping the gun in the spreading puddle of blood next to him. He could see every fibre and muscle in her neck and arms tensing and flexing as she shrugged off the FBI ballistic vest and let it fall to the floor.
She turned back to Terry, expertly frisking the lifeless, crumpled form by the sofa. She loosened his waistband and pulled down his trousers to the knees checking all around his underwear and finally the hem of his clothing. She found what she was looking for in his inside waistband, pulled out the folded evidence bag and spread it out until she could see the Micro SD card nestled in the corner. She held it up to the light before stuffing it in her coat pocket. Finally she passed Brad to retrieve her gun from the TV stand, and then carefully stepped over the blood puddles to keep her flat pumps from being soiled.
Brad hovered in front of her looking at her eyes. The glittering blue irises were just contact lenses. He saw every feature of her face, the tones and pores of her skin, the red grazes she still carried from the car accident and the muscles working beneath them as her face changed expression slightly. He could see where each follicle of hair attached to her scalp and the line and weave of each hair as it combed back to the clasp of her ponytail. She dyed her hair blonde, he noticed idly; even the ponytail was just made from extensions.
She lifted the radio to the side of her head, displacing a few errant hairs as she did. “Sharkfin, this is Mirage.”
“Go ahead, Mirage.”
Brad heard the voices as if they were split into a dozen frequencies. He heard the quality of her breath, the vibrations of vocal cords and the combined timbre of each strand of sound. Entranced by this heightened perception, he experienced a surge of joy at the sensory stimulation it brought. He drew closer, watching the tiny adjustments in the lines of her lips as her mouth formed the words.
“It’s done. I’ve got it. Threats neutralised. I missed the two civilians, they ran. Over.”
“Confirm both civilians have escaped? Over.”
“Affirm. I can’t waste time chasing them down. I need to get out now. Over.”
“Roger. We’re on our way. Two minutes, Mirage.”
“I’ll be waiting. Don’t be late. Mirage out.”
She checked her things once more, and then quickly moved to the back door and took off at a phenomenal sprint. She was past the garage and almost over the chain-link fence thirty yards away before Brad thought to follow her.
The instant he did, he was already ahead of her watching her run, arms and legs pumping, her face neutral, mouth open and drawing each breath sparingly before pushing again at the ground. Her suit coat swished from side to side with the movements
of her arms, and he could see the muscles in her legs tensing and changing shape with each stroke. He didn’t even need to blink.
He could hear the helicopter returning. Every tiny mechanical sound a separate part of the whole, yet the increasing noise as it drew nearer never became uncomfortable.
Brad felt only peace. Being dead was far better than he expected, but, of course, he wasn’t dead. He was more alive than he had ever been.
The helicopter landed across the railroad in the huge vacant car park where they had arrived. Mirage was already running hard to reach it as it touched down. She patted her coat checking her hard-won prize was in its sealed bag. After leaping into the cabin, she gave the okay sign to the pilot who immediately began to lift off.
Brad was intrigued. This would be a pleasant journey effortlessly keeping up with the whirling blades of the helicopter. Soon he would discover who Mirage was and who she was working for.
Suddenly his vision began to wane; the intoxicating perception began to weaken as if suddenly dimmed. He watched the helicopter hurry away from him. He felt he was falling. No longer could he choose his way. He was being hemmed in, drawn against his will, and a painful sensation was beginning to spread across his body.
My body?
He was sucked back into the house and at once a searing, wrenching pain ran through his head. He was now completely blind and only the sounds of sirens penetrated his hearing.
The pain was absolute. He felt his chest crushed by an unbearable pressure, a suffocating, panic-inducing weight that wouldn’t let him breathe. His only conscious thought was now a stark, paralysing terror.
He was on the floor. The ceiling was above him still flecked with blood. Blood was the only smell. Even his ears were full of it.
Breathe! I can’t breathe!
Sirens. Darkness. Silence.
Chapter Thirteen
Tuesday, 13th September 2016
