by Brad Taylor
He walked up the path, away from the terminal, seeing a multitude of concrete structures built into the hillside, all crumbling. There were a few tourists about, wandering the terrain and taking selfies, but no sign of his target. He continued deeper, ignoring the history.
He was considering his options, developing a plan, when he saw a man and woman toying with a monkey. He thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but no, there was a monkey sitting on the path. What the hell was that doing up here? He watched for a moment, then noticed two more, finally realizing that the damn things were everywhere. Monkeys with babies on their backs, monkeys picking themselves, monkeys climbing trees, and tourists taking selfies with them.
What in the world?
The monkey snatched the sunglasses off the tourist’s face and scampered into the tree line, the man shocked at the sudden turn of events. Johan laughed and returned to his mission, continuing on the path, the only direction his target could have gone.
It wound higher and higher, entering a literal cloud, the buildings and trees becoming cloaked in mist, giving the surroundings an otherworldly feel. He rounded the corner of a dilapidated brick building, an ancient radio antenna rusting on the roof, and saw a form come out of the mists. The figure drew abreast, and Johan recognized his target. Without the backpack.
29
Johan ducked his head and paid the man no mind, continuing forward. The target was alone, so whomever he had given the backpack to was ahead. Johan sped up, going another seventy meters before he came to a dead end, the path stopping at a modern concrete wall about four feet tall, connected to a building bristling with some type of weather monitors or cell towers. He leapt up onto the brick wall and swiveled his head around. He saw nobody.
What the hell?
The transfer of the backpack had to have happened before the target reached the wall, and there was only a single path going back down the hill. He leapt off the wall and started to retrace his steps, glancing at every cut and game trail off the path, sure he’d missed something. He passed a gaggle of the small rock apes bouncing back and forth over a decrepit brick cistern, agitated about something. He was passing it by, trying to come up with a plan, when a monkey ran by him carrying a bit of nylon.
He watched the monkeys, the pack starting to fight over some prize at the bottom of the cistern. Intrigued, he left the path and shooed them away. He squatted over the cistern, peering inside. He saw nothing but sticks and trash, but the branches on top were new, with green leaves.
He reached in and pulled the detritus aside, surprised to see the backpack. He glanced left and right but found himself alone. He hoisted the backpack up and split the zipper. Inside were seven or eight small metal cylinders the size of cigarettes and bricks of white clay. He recognized them immediately. Blasting caps and plastic explosives. But why put them here?
Because he’s already used what he needed. Johan was sure he was getting rid of the evidence, dislocating himself from the explosives, if they were found, but leaving the ability to retrieve them at a later date.
Which meant whatever he’d planned was already set. Whatever it was, it was something local. Blowing up a tourist pub, destroying a monument, or, hell, cutting the cables on the cars that went up and down the mountain. Whatever it was, it was in the works, and the only way to solve that problem was to interrogate the man himself.
He slung the bag over his shoulder and went back up the path, debating his next steps. Call the police? Or do the work first? If he went the police route, he’d have to explain how he’d come upon the threat, which would negate the very reason he had come here. He’d have to expose Icarus Solutions’ bribes.
He passed a tourist couple, and the man tagged him on the shoulder, asking if he would take a picture of them overlooking the Med. He shook his head no and continued forward, leaving them behind, fuming.
He reached the depot for the cable cars and slowed, checking the deck. No car was there, and his target was gone. He went forward, seeing the next car approaching. It slid into the stall, and he entered, taking a seat on the bench at the rear. He glanced out of the back window and was shocked to see his target approaching the door, licking an ice cream cone.
Jesus Christ.
He waited for other tourists to gather around the entrance to the car, but none did, still content to explore.
The man entered, took a step away to the other side of the car, and stared at him. Johan sat still, trying to appear nonchalant, covering the rucksack with his body.
The car broke free in a sickening split second of free fall, then began its downward trek, high above the earth. They traveled for about five seconds before the target said, “What do you want of me?”
Startled, Johan said, “Excuse me?”
He saw that his accent confused the target. The man said, “I saw you on the street. Outside of the cemetery. What do you want? Why are you following me?”
Johan said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You followed me into this car.”
The man said nothing, appearing to relax at the words. Then he caught a glimpse of the rucksack Johan was trying to hide, and his face hardened. He slid his hand into his waistband and withdrew a five-inch fillet knife, saying, “Even if I die, you won’t stop me. What I’ve done is already in motion.”
Johan saw the blade and threw his hands up, saying, “Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?”
The target said nothing, advancing on him. Johan, trying one last time, said, “Don’t! Don’t!”
The target jabbed forward, attempting to spear his heart. Johan exploded, springing off of the seat and snapping to the right, dodging the blow and trapping the knife hand at full extension. He locked up the wrist joint and rotated the blade away, twisting the arm upward and bringing the target to his knees, the knife falling to the floor. He heard the man wail, but he kept the pressure on.
Holding the joint lock, Johan exhaled, then said, “Now that we know each other, I have a few questions.”
The target screamed and then did something completely unexpected. He sprang upward against the joint lock, snapping his own wrist and rendering Johan’s hold useless. The broken appendage flopping, he slammed his head into Johan’s face, throwing him back into the window of the car, the force of the movement causing the car to rock on the cable.
The target punched him in the face with a flailing blow, then scrambled on the floor for the knife, getting it into his good hand. Dazed from the head blow, Johan sprang up in a fighting stance. The target stabbed forward again, and Johan dodged the strike, slapping the knife hand away and punching his attacker in the face. The man fell to a knee, slashing with the blade and forcing Johan to spring back.
The target stood, breathing heavily, at the far side of the car. They looked at each other for a moment; then the target came in again, slashing the blade left and right.
Johan dodged one, then took another on his forearm, the blade slicing through his clothing into the skin. He lashed out, smacking the man with a back fist, connecting hard, then wrapped his arms around the knife hand.
Fighting for control, they sank to the floor, the car continuing its inexorable slide back to the earth. Lying on top of him, both men panting for control of the knife and struggling like demons, Johan pushed his elbow into the man’s neck. He saw the man’s eyes spring open and felt the struggle beneath him, the legs violently trying to alter the outcome but meeting empty air. He kept control of the knife and jammed his forearm deeper, feeling the ringed tissue of the esophagus begin to succumb.
His target began to flail, now no longer fighting for dominance but struggling for survival. The broken hand slapped him in the side of the head like a drunken man waving a party favor. Johan slammed his forearm hard, using the blade of his bone, and felt the break. He held it for a moment, the man underneath him twitching uncontrollably, weakly combating his fate. Then the body sagged,
releasing its bowels. The ungodly stench filled the cabin, and Johan knew he’d won. It wasn’t the first time he’d smelled such a thing.
Johan sat up, immediately assessing his situation. He was on a cable car that would end up at the bottom with two things: a bag of explosives and a dead man. Which meant he had to get out.
He searched the body, finding a bunch of useless pocket litter, but also an address book, a passport, and a phone. He stood up, breathing heavily from the exertion. He glanced out the window, seeing the midpoint stop approaching, and came up with a solution to both his escape and his inability to alert the authorities.
Leave the man here, with the explosives. Let them figure it out.
He dug into the bag and pulled out two bricks of Semtex and four blasting caps, scattering them around the floor. He then whipped around the car, looking for a way to open the door. He saw an emergency pull tab just as the car slid into the midpoint stop. He hit it, and the door lock released. He slammed down the handle for the door, and it slid open. He grabbed the rucksack with the remaining explosives and rolled out onto the ground as the car continued on.
He watched it for a few seconds, knowing he’d be on half a dozen cameras as having entered with the dead man at the top. He scrambled off the shelf of the midpoint, onto the winding road walked by tourists who were too cheap to pay for the cable ride.
He started jogging down the mountain, convinced he’d done what he could to prevent whatever the man had planned. Now all he had to do was get out of Gibraltar.
30
Sitting on a cinder block next to Knuckles, I took a swig from a water bottle and watched Jennifer down the road, pattering on about something with Veep. I saw him laugh and her put a hand over her mouth, looking all the world like a couple on a date. Out of nowhere, I wondered if they were talking about me. Jennifer’s probably bastardizing the story of our triathlon earlier, getting on the millennial’s good side.
Knuckles said, “He’s got her number. Maybe you should’ve put Retro in that position.”
I glared at him, and he smirked, saying, “Touchy. With so little confidence I’m surprised she’s stayed with you.”
I laughed and said, “I’ll see how that works with Carly.” He started to retort, and I said, “Retro has to coordinate with Creed for Veep’s ridiculous plan. You’d better hope he’s not burned.”
“He’s not. Not with normal clothes on. I’m the only one who’s no good for surveillance against this guy. He never got a look at Veep’s face. He was focused on me the whole time.”
Jennifer and Veep were sitting at an outdoor table next to a narrow hotel entrance—one we’d conveniently rented the night before. We were up the street behind a temporary wall of a construction site, the ground littered with scaffolding, two-by-fours, and paint cans. Retro was about fifty meters behind us in a minivan, working his Wi-Fi magic with Creed on one of the few roads big enough for cars. Our ambush was set. It only remained to be seen if Veep’s idea was worth a shit.
Personally, I thought it was nuts, but he had been adamant, and I was willing to give it a go, if only to develop him as a leader. It was the first time he’d taken charge, and I wanted to encourage that—and the plan did show some out-of-the-box thinking.
Yesterday, we’d tracked the Dragontooth around the ancient Moorish neighborhood of Albaicín, right up the hill from the Darro River and the plaza with the hipsters, seemingly wandering the narrow footpaths aimlessly, to the point that I wondered if the equipment was malfunctioning.
The Dragontooth was a crowd-sourced beacon that utilized the cell network to leverage unwitting cell users on that same net. It worked on Bluetooth and sent data to anyone within range who had a smartphone—which was just about everyone nowadays, outside the odd grandparent still using a flip phone. Basically, it was malware that infected the local population’s phones as if they’d asked for the app, and when our beacon registered with the phone, it sent us an alert with a time and location. Once the beacon was activated, it would talk to any cell phone in range, and that cell phone would talk to us, whether it wanted to or not, letting us know where the beacon was.
It wasn’t perfect, because the beacon could travel along a lonely highway at seventy miles an hour, passing cars going the opposite way at the same speed, or the beacon could wander for hours outside of any other cell phones, giving us imprecise or latent data, but if someone was on foot in a crowded area, it was pretty damn precise.
In this case, the beacon seemed to be wandering aimlessly through the neighborhood. It would stop for about half a minute, then wander on, winding through the twisting roads and alleys. We watched it, with everyone on the team having an opinion, but nobody could determine exactly what the guy was doing. He didn’t stop long enough to do any drug deal, and he was going up blind alleys and roads that made no sense. Eventually, I’d gotten sick of the beacon-only tracking, not trusting the results, and had sent Retro and Jennifer into action, on foot.
They had picked him up right at the Darro River, on the main road that paralleled the water about a hundred meters from where the hipsters had been, and then had followed him right up into the Alhambra itself. On the way, he stopped every couple of hundred meters and messed with his phone, standing still like he was taking a picture of something, only nothing was there. And instead of pressing the photo button, he flicked his touch screen up and down repeatedly.
I’d gotten a third call from Jennifer giving me the same report, which was, “He’s looking at a patch of grass and flicking his phone.”
I replied, “Come on. Something’s there.”
“No. Pike, I’m telling you, I think he’s on drugs.”
I said, “Keep on him. Keep on him.”
She said, “He’s walking up the road to Alhambra. He can’t get in without a ticket, and they sell out early. If he has a ticket, we won’t be able to follow.”
I said, “Just stick with him. Figure out what he’s doing. If you have to peel off, don’t worry about it. At least we know the beacon’s working.”
They reached the summit, discovering there were some areas free of charge inside the Alhambra, including a couple of hotels, squashed right in the center. The target passed through the taxi stands cloistered outside the gate, looking at his phone and walking forward, as if it were telling him where to go.
Throughout the surveillance, Veep had been working the computer for research and reported that there were two hotels on-site: one a five-star and one a dump. I gave the information to the team, directing them to the less savory hotel, figuring that was where the target was headed.
The citadel was huge, with most of the historical constructs available to ticket holders only—gardens, waterworks, castles, and art museums—but there was a large part that anyone could enter, centered around the hotels. Most of it was apparently a tease to get you to buy a ticket.
They followed the target past the first hotel, and he stopped again, doing his incomprehensible cell phone dance, this time in the parking lot just outside the entrance. Honestly, the repeated action was driving me nuts. Nobody does anything that strange unless he is up to no good. We just needed to figure out what it was.
Jennifer gave me another stale report, and I said, “Come on, you guys call yourselves commandos? I’d expect this out of the Air Force. What the hell is he doing?”
Inside our hotel, Veep—an Air Force Special Operations member—gave me a look but backed down when I’d glared back. Knuckles said, “Veep, you really don’t have to take that shit. You can tell him he’s an asshole.”
I clicked back on the radio and said, “Correction. You’re acting like a bunch of SEALs.”
Retro said, “Pike, I have no idea what he’s doing. I’ve analyzed every stop. There’s nothing of interest at any of them. Nothing.”
Off the radio, Veep said, “Get me video. Get me a clip.”
I looked at
him and he said, “Sorry. Can I ask that?”
I said, “Of course you can. Jesus. Why, though?”
“I don’t want to say. I got a feeling.”
I nodded and said, “A feeling . . .”
Knuckles had laughed and said, “It’s worked for you.”
I went back to the radio and said, “Give me a video. From two angles. Veep thinks he’s got something.”
Veep looked a little startled at my call, like he was surprised I gave the order.
Jennifer came on, saying, “Pike, we can use this place for cover reasons. It’s a UNESCO Heritage site. We need to get on this if we’re going to do any work here. Get the cover of Grolier Recovery Services engaged.”
Which was her way of saying, I really want to go look at a bunch of old shit.
But it did make sense. I glanced at Knuckles and he went to the computer, sending a message to the Taskforce. I said, “Okay, okay, Koko. We’ll go look at Alhambra if we have time. Knuckles is working it now.”
The target made a stop right outside of a kiosk selling beer and popsicles to the line of people waiting to enter Nazaríes Palace—a place that required an additional ticket to enter. He repeated his weird actions, and the team caught it on video and sent it to us.
We watched the video, and I swear it was exactly what they’d described. A guy with a cell phone pointing it into the dirt and then flicking the screen over and over again.
I said, “He’s obviously marking territory. He’s building a kill box, or a target set, or something.”
Veep studied the video a second time and said, “No, he’s not.” He turned to me and said, “We have a way to get him.”
Knuckles and I both looked at him like he had a third head. Now animated, Veep said, “We need to get Creed on the line. Get some hacking capability. We can build a trap for this guy.”
Knuckles glanced my way with an expression that said Veep was a loon, then went back to him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
