The Protocol (A James Acton Thriller, Book #1)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  His stomach rumbled. He patted it and looked at his watch. Forty minutes. Yes, he could have ordered from a thirty minute pizza place, but quality took time, and a Chicago-style deep-dish pizza was worth the wait. But forty minutes? The doorbell rang. He flew at the door then gathered himself, trying not to appear too excited. Checking the peephole, he saw the deliveryman tapping his foot and eyeing his watch. He counted to three then opened the door.

  “Hello, sir,” said the teenager as he handed over the box. “That’ll be twelve-fifty.” Billy handed him fifteen bucks.

  “Keep the change,” he said, feeling good about the decent tip, the events of earlier rapidly disappearing from his mind, replaced by the aroma of Italian sausage and onions. The kid smiled and took off down the hallway toward the elevator. Billy closed the door and sat down on the couch in front of the television, his stomach growling in anticipation. He grabbed the remote to un-mute the television. His jaw dropped. On the screen was a picture of the same man he had seen in the file.

  “—developing story. CNN has been able to confirm that Professor James Acton was not among those found dead in Peru. A State Department source is quoted as saying that Acton was not among the bodies found and his whereabouts are currently unknown. We will keep you posted—”

  He paused the TiVo, the image of the man staring back at him as his face blanched, his pizza forgotten.

  St. Paul’s University, Maryland

  Milton was still in shock from the news of several days before. The phone calls he had made had been the most grueling of his life. He wished he could have notified the families in person, but most of the students who had been killed were from out of state. The nightmares he had experienced the first night had convinced him to not even try sleeping the next two. Every time he shut his eyes he kept seeing his friend of so many years being killed.

  I never should have let him go!

  He was exhausted. He took another swig of his double cream, double sugar coffee, the caffeine struggling to keep his systems going. As he shook his head to try and wake up, the intercom on his desk rang. Pushing aside the speech he was working on for the memorial service, he hit the button.

  “Yes, Rita?”

  “There’s a phone call for you, sir, they won’t say who it is,” was the reply over the speaker.

  “Take a message, I’m busy.” Milton hit the intercom button to end the conversation. A minute later his Blackberry vibrated on his hip. He grabbed it and read the message: Answer your phone Corky.

  He gasped and almost dropped the Blackberry onto the floor. He was about to pick up his phone when the intercom buzzed again. “Sir, he’s really pers—”

  “Put him through!” yelped Milton, grabbing for the phone.

  “Yes, sir, line one.”

  He hit the button. “This is Dean Milton.”

  “Hi Greg, it’s me Donald.” Milton was confused. Only one person knew him as Corky, an old nickname from their college days together he’d rather forget. And that one person was not named Donald. It was James Acton.

  “Donald?” asked Milton. He knew the voice was Acton’s but he decided he better play along. “Good to hear from you. It’s been a long time.”

  “Too long my friend. I’d like to meet if you’ve got the time.”

  “Are you in town?” His heart was pounding now. Something was definitely wrong. “Where can we meet?”

  “Remember where we crammed for English Lit finals? Can you meet me there, say eight p.m. tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I’ll see you there tomorrow.”

  “Okay, good bye, old friend.”

  “Good bye.” Milton hung up and sat back in his chair, confused. He must have thought someone was listening. He hit the intercom button. “Rita, cancel all of my appointments for the rest of today and tomorrow.” Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes as a big smile spread across his face.

  Jim’s alive!

  In a telephone repair van parked just off the campus, Agent Lambert nodded. The screen in front of him flashed the confirmation. 98.3% positive match. “It was Acton all right.”

  Jasper smiled. “We’ve got him.”

  A moment later, snoring rumbled through the speakers.

  Somewhere along the Mexican Border

  Acton sipped on a water bottle, trying to keep himself cool, as the car he had hired headed for Nogales in the scorching heat. He had used some of his remaining cash and his near perfect Spanish to take care of a few things including a ride to the border in a vehicle that redefined the term ‘beater’. He adjusted himself for the umpteenth time, trying to find comfort in the threadbare backseat, but finally gave up to the spring poking through the cushion. Fortunately exhaustion won out, and he soon fell into a restless, nightmare filled sleep.

  Visions of his students being tortured, pleading for their lives, watching as their classmates were murdered one by one tormented him. Robbie trying to save him from the gunmen, dying for his efforts needlessly. Of poor Garcia, his crumpled body left in the middle of the camp, never to return to his wife and seven kids.

  “I’m sorry!” he cried over and over to visions of his students glaring at him, asking him why he had run and not tried to save them. Why he had survived, and no one else.

  Acton jumped in his seat, suddenly awake. “I’m sorry!”

  “Sorry for what, señor?”

  Acton looked around him, regaining his bearings. “Where are we?”

  “Nogales. We have arrived, señor. The border is just ahead.” The driver pointed toward a long lineup of cars.

  Acton frowned. He knew his passport would be on a watch list and couldn’t afford to have it scanned at the border crossing. Before he could open his mouth, his driver turned in his seat to face him. “Perhaps, señor doesn’t want to be seen crossing the border?”

  How’d he guess? Acton nodded.

  “No problema, señor!” said the driver smiling broadly, revealing four beautiful teeth. “For a price, I can get you across, no problema!”

  Acton sighed and pulled out his wallet. Is it illegal to sneak back into your own country?

  New York City, New York

  “BD?”

  Dawson looked up from his laptop at his friend, Red. Both were sitting on opposite sides of a large rectangular table in a hotel suite near JFK. They knew from the phone conversation Professor Acton had earlier that this was where he was heading; his friend Milton had booked a ticket to New York shortly after the call. They had arrived only a few hours ago as an advance team and had set up a base of operations in a hotel overlooking the airport. The remaining team members were being transported with their equipment by a C17 and would arrive within a couple of hours. Dawson leaned back in his chair, turning his attention to Red.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I ask you something, off the record?”

  Dawson already didn’t like where this was headed, but Red and he had been through too much too many times to deny him at least the privilege of asking the question. It didn’t guarantee an answer however. “Go ahead.”

  “Off the record,” Red said, then hesitated. “Shit, BD, those were just kids!”

  Dawson’s jaw steeled. “You don’t think I know that?” Red was about to say something else when Dawson raised his finger to stop him. “We had our orders and Control confirmed them over the comm during the mission. We follow orders, that’s what we do. We don’t know who those kids were or what they were doing, but Control must have had a reason.”

  “I know but—”

  “Remember Yemen?”

  “What, when you got hoofed in the balls?”

  Dawson allowed himself one chuckle. “Same mission, earlier in it. Who were the hostiles?”

  Red nodded. “Kids. Teenagers.”

  “Exactly. And they had no problem trying to kill us and we had no problem killing them. And remember nine-eleven? How old were those bastards? Mostly early-twenties? The world is a harsh place, my friend. It’s up to us to try to
clean it up a little for Bryson.”

  Red smiled at the mention of his kid. “I’m never letting him out of the country.” His computer beeped at him, demanding his attention. “We’ve got a hit in the airline reservation system.”

  “What is it?” Dawson rose from his chair and rounded the table to where Red had several laptops set up.

  Red spun one so Dawson could see the display. “Acton just booked a flight from Phoenix to New York, leaving in less than an hour.”

  “Using his own ID? That’s pretty bold. Can you hack the security system and get some eyes on him?”

  “Just give me a minute.” Red’s fingers flew over the keyboard and several minutes later they were looking at the airport security cameras. After a few minutes of scanning Dawson leaned in and hit a couple of keys, backing up to a camera angle that had just flipped by.

  “There he is,” said Dawson, pointing to the security check lineup. “Zoom in on him.”

  Red highlighted the image of Acton to enlarge it. They watched him empty his pockets as he went through security. He set the alarm off and was scanned manually with the wand. Security had him remove his belt and go back through. After he cleared, he put his belt back on then picked up what appeared to be a wallet, watch, and keys. He then walked out of view of the camera.

  “Did he check any luggage?” asked Dawson.

  Red looked up the baggage claim info in the reservation system. “No, no luggage.”

  “And he doesn’t have a carry-on,” said Dawson. “Where the hell is the package?” He began to pace the room. “Backtrack his movements through the airport, see if he handed it off to anyone. We have no idea how big this terrorist cell is, he could have contacts there.”

  Red deftly manipulated the camera angles and archival footage to track Acton back from security to the bathroom, back out of the bathroom to the ticket counter and finally to the taxi drop off outside where he could be seen exiting a cab. He wasn’t carrying anything.

  “He must have done a handoff to somebody before arriving,” said Red.

  “Get the ID number off that cab. I want to know if they made any stops along the way or if the target said anything that might indicate where the package is.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major.” Red hammered at the keyboard and within minutes had the number of the cab, the company, and the cabbie’s name. Along with the motel he had picked up his last fare at. Red searched a classified database containing the location of pretty much every camera in the country and located one across the street from the motel at a bank machine. He pointed at Acton entering the cab, empty handed. “Maybe he ditched it somewhere?”

  “Maybe,” replied Dawson. “Looks like we’re going to have to retrace his steps.”

  Though Professor Acton was at the top of his personal hit list, Dawson had to admit his admiration for the man’s abilities was growing. At first he had assumed a simple geek professor considering his subject matter, and his weekend warrior status hadn’t exactly impressed him, though it was better than what most citizens did. But he had managed to take out one of his men, wound another, evade capture and find his way from Peru to Phoenix without being detected.

  The man had skills.

  And a lot of luck.

  Mickey was a lucky hit, and if it weren’t for the cave-in, Spaz would have survived. And if they hadn’t been ordered out of the area by Control, they would have definitely captured Acton.

  And sent him on to the next damned life.

  But here stood their target, bold as brass—since there was no way he could know they had been ordered to keep him off the watch lists—getting on a domestic flight, using his own ID, without what appeared to be a care in the world.

  Which meant he had done something with the stolen DARPA object that had him certain he was now bulletproof. And he was right. Until they recovered the object, they couldn’t kill him.

  What would I do?

  He racked his brain until something finally clicked. “Can you check the shipping companies to see if they have any packages going from Phoenix using Acton’s name?”

  “That’ll take some time,” replied Red. “Would he risk it, though? What if it got lost?”

  “It’s what I would do if I were him,” said Dawson. “He’s got to know that we’re after the package and not him. By separating himself from it he’s betting that we won’t terminate him until he reacquires it.”

  And he’s right.

  “I’ll start with the major carriers and work my way down,” said Red as he began to hack each individual system and scan the manifests for Acton’s name.

  “We’re going to need boots on the ground to retrace his steps,” said Dawson, activating his comm as he returned to his seat.

  Time to figure out what the hell he did with that package.

  Somewhere in U.S. Airspace

  The men sat solemnly, the roar of the engines doing a poor job of drowning out their thoughts of Spaz. His flag-draped body was in the hold, watched over by his good friend Clint. The team had been held at sea for several days until apparently their masters had cleared them to return to home soil after the Peru story hit the newspapers, making any further return to the site impossible. Barely a word had been spoken the entire flight until Mickey finally broke the silence.

  “How did he get the nickname ‘Spaz’ anyway?”

  Niner frowned. That kid talks too much. Mickey was left dangling for a few moments before Niner finally decided it was best to fill him in. “Ever see ‘Revenge of the Nerds’?”

  “Who hasn’t?” replied Mickey.

  “When we get back I’ll show you the tape we made at the party celebrating his making The Unit.”

  “What happened?” Niner didn’t answer so Mickey looked at some of the others. A smile creased Smitty’s face. Mickey looked at him. “Well?”

  Smitty, whose own nickname had come from his voracious appetite for pancakes, laughed. “Shit, that’s a night he always wanted to forget!” A few of the others chuckled. “Spaz got so floor lickin’ pissed that he put Michael Jackson’s ‘Beat It’ on the player and then started to imitate the dance from ‘Revenge’. It was one of the funniest damned things I’ve ever seen!” The chuckles transformed into outright laughter. The nervous tension finally broken, the men reminisced about some of the other escapades they had enjoyed with Spaz.

  “Bravo Transport One, Bravo Command. Come in, over.” Marco was catching some rack time when the communication came in over his headset, Dawson’s voice startling him awake. He glanced around. Most of the other men were laughing. Mickey winced between laughs, gripping his leg as Spock adjusted his medication.

  “Bravo Command, Bravo Transport One. Go ahead, over.”

  “Bravo Transport One, we need you to land immediately. I want a four-man team in civvies in Phoenix. Further instructions once in position, over.”

  “Roger that Bravo Command. Will find nearest strip and notify you. Bravo Transport One, out.”

  Marco went to the cockpit and notified the pilots, then returned to the passenger area.

  “Hey, Marco, where’d you get your name?” asked Mickey, his words slurred slightly from the Demerol.

  “Someone found out I played polo,” he replied.

  “No shit?” Mickey laughed. He turned to Spock who had just checked his dressing. “And you?” Spock cocked one eyebrow at him. Mickey roared in laughter then passed out.

  Marco pointed to Smitty, Niner and Jimmy. “Gear up for a civvie street assignment, we’re going to Phoenix.”

  The four of them started stripping out of their fatigues as the C17 banked sharply to the left and descended. A private charter was arranged at their drop-off point, and within minutes they were winging for Phoenix, arriving within the hour.

  Marco pointed to Jimmy as their jet came to a stop at the airline’s private terminal. “Get us some wheels. I’ll check in with BD and see what the mission is.” Jimmy nodded and exited the aircraft as Marco contacted command. His comm beeped
in his ear.

  “This is Bravo Command. We’re sending you the data now. Find this cab driver. We need to know where he picked up the target, if he made any stops, and whether or not he ever had a package with him, over.”

  Marco watched Niner tapping away on his laptop. He looked up and nodded. “Bravo Command, Bravo Team Phoenix. We have the data. Will contact you when target is acquired. Phoenix, out.”

  Niner hacked the cab company’s GPS tracking system and soon found the cab Acton had taken earlier. “He just left the airport, about ten minutes out.”

  “Let’s go,” said Marco.

  Niner closed up the laptop and they disembarked as Jimmy pulled up in an Escalade. Niner shook his head as they climbed in.

  “What are we, pimps?” he asked Jimmy.

  In his best rapper’s voice, Jimmy replied, “Yo mo fo, don’t you be dissin’ my ride or I’m gonna have to take you outside and serve up a can o’ whoop ass!”

  Niner looked at him. “You’re so white.” The others started to piss themselves with laughter in the back seat as Marco activated the GPS on his laptop, tying into the real time feed for the cab’s locator.

  “Let’s go. Looks like he’s about twenty minutes away.”

  Jimmy floored it, launching the men into the back of their seats.

  Make that fifteen.

  New York City, New York

  “BD, I’ve got it!” It had taken two hours, but Red finally had a hit. Dawson jumped from his chair, tossing his comm on the table as he joined Red at the laptop. “A package just left a collection point for the Phoenix airport. It was sent by James Acton to Pedro Gonzalez, Professor of Archeology in Madrid.”

  Did he really think he’d get away with that?

  “Relay the coordinates to Bravo Team Phoenix and have them intercept the package,” ordered Dawson, the adrenaline flowing as all the pieces were beginning to come together. “Have Clint and Atlas reported in yet? I want them to eliminate Professor Acton when he arrives in New York as soon as we have confirmation of the item’s retrieval.”