Jack had thought about going deeper to make himself a harder target, but that meant taxing his compressed air supply more than necessary. Besides, he had his SOG knife strapped to his ankle for defense in case a shark decided to take a closer look.
Jack watched the black-tips vanish from view as he continued on his westerly course.
The decision to part ways with the comfortable Tiara had been easy, since Jack was convinced that by sunrise the yacht would be reported stolen, and its description passed on to the Coast Guard, which would probably search the area.
So after leaving Angela and their hardware—minus the scuba gear he would need to swim back—in the hands of a very shocked Dago, Jack had steered the Tiara out to sea and pointed it north, toward Fort Pierce, estimating that the remaining fuel in the tank would take the yacht close enough to the marina to hopefully fool the Coast Guard into thinking that the vessel might have gotten loose from its moor and drifted out to sea.
It was a stretch, especially with the empty gas tank, but at a minimum it would lessen the chance of anyone knowing where they had gone—assuming that anyone was still looking for them.
But the SEAL in him had no choice but to assume that his little blow-up stunt hadn’t fooled Pete, since he was very aware of Jack’s skills. And in the back of his head, Jack was still worried about the phone call Angela had made to Dago. If Pete was indeed going to any extreme to find them, he would have certainly searched her phone records by now. So Jack had Angela warn Dago about possible tails using a pay phone at the marina, and asked that he come alone and take a long route to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He had waited for the biker to arrive in his truck, and after making sure he was free of any surveillance, Jack had sailed back out to sea and dumped the Tiara.
He continued along, listening to the bubbling sound of his own breathing mixed with the constant droning of the SeaScooter, trying to enjoy the feeling of weightlessness, especially since he wasn’t encumbered by the bulky space suits he wore for years in NASA’s training pools. This was much more reminiscent of his SEAL days, but without the bubbles. SEAL teams used closed-circuit rebreathers that absorbed the carbon dioxide of the user’s exhaled breath, not only eliminating the bubbles that could signal their presence to the enemy on the surface, but also, as the name implied, rebreathing their exhaled air after carbon dioxide removal and injection of a small amount of oxygen into the mix.
He heard the distant sounds of propellers, probably a pleasure cruiser, though it would be difficult, if not impossible, to tell its direction. Sound traveled more efficiently in water than air, reaching his ears almost simultaneously, making it difficult to pinpoint the origin.
Jack looked up and around him, doing so more to keep busy than expecting to find the source since his visibility was limited to around a hundred feet.
Slowly, the ocean floor resolved beneath him as he approached the shore, mostly islands of reefs amid miles of sand. But at least he now had something to look at, including colorful fish, a variety of stingrays, and the occasional shark or barracuda, though the last two always kept their distance.
In another twenty minutes, his current depth met up with the ocean floor, and Jack continued along the bottom, skirting coral reefs for another ten minutes, until reaching a depth of thirty feet.
Time to go up.
Turning off the SeaScooter and letting it hang from the end of a lanyard, Jack inflated his BCD enough to rise to a depth of fifteen feet, his safety stop.
Over the next five minutes, he remained in place, allowing his body to release absorbed nitrogen. Although technically a safety stop wasn’t required unless the diver went deeper than a hundred feet, it was always good practice after spending any time below thirty feet to eliminate the chance of decompression sickness.
He surfaced less than a couple hundred feet from the Biscayne National Park, where he swam the rest of the way, removing his fins, tank, and BCD when reaching shallow water by the narrow beach, where almost two hours earlier they had met Dago by the docks lining the entrance to the marina.
Jack was tired and sore as he stepped off the water and onto white sand, walking about a hundred feet to the parking lot, where Dago, still looking surprised as hell, waited for him next to Angela by a black pickup truck.
Angela ran to hug him.
“This is fucking surreal, Jack,” Dago said in his tenor-like voice, dressed in black jeans, riding boots, and an open denim vest full of patches. “It’s really great seeing you.”
“Same here. Thanks for the help.”
“Anything for you guys,” he replied.
“No tails?” Jack asked, scanning the parking lot.
“Relax, honey,” Angela said with a grin. “Besides, nobody fucks with bikers.”
“Damn right,” said Dago.
Jack sighed as the large biker, who stood almost six inches taller than Jack, helped him hoist his gear onto the bed, before Angela handed him a towel and his clothes. Jack walked over to the nearest outdoor shower stall and rinsed off the saltwater and sand, before walking into the restrooms, drying off, and changing.
He got in the backseat with Angela, the dark tinted glass concealing them while Dago drove, pretending to be alone.
“I was at your funeral, you know,” Dago said, looking at them through the rearview mirror while Angela handed Jack his favorite pistol from the arsenal, a Sig Sauer P229 9mm semiautomatic, which he quickly checked, making sure he had a full magazine plus a chambered round before tucking it in the small of his back while glancing at the side mirror.
“I heard. Thanks.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad this little lady’s back with you. Never could warm up to that Pete guy.”
Angela sat sideways in the rear seat, facing Jack and slowly shook her head. “I’m never going to hear the end of that one.”
“That’s all right. He turned out to be an asshole anyway. At least on this Earth,” Jack added, his eyes watching a white Mercedes-Benz SUV with tinted windows pull out of a parking spot at the edge of the large lot and turn behind them, keeping three cars in between.
They drove past the Homestead Air Reserve Base and reached the entrance to the turnpike, heading north.
The SUV continued to follow them.
“Speaking of assholes … we’ve got company,” Jack said, looking through the tinted glass of the rear windshield.
“What?” Dago asked. “I even turned off my cell, like you asked. How can they have—”
“It doesn’t matter how,” Jack replied with more calm than he actually felt. “We need to lose them.”
“You want me to call for help?” Dago offered.
“No,” Jack replied. “The moment Angela called you, she compromised your cell phone. If you turn it on, it’s just going to help them track us, even after we lose that tail.”
“What do you need me to do, Jack?”
“Take us somewhere public … something with a big parking lot filled with cars,” Jack said, thinking quickly. “Is there a mall nearby?”
“I know just the place,” replied the large biker.
They continued on the turnpike for another ten minutes, before connecting to Dixie Highway and turning south until reaching 211th SW Street, which skirted the south end of the Southland Mall.
“They’re still back there,” Angela said.
“Good,” Jack replied before instructing Dago to steer onto the mall’s parking lot and continue down a row of parked vehicles close to the farther edge of the crowded lot.
Angela shot him a puzzled look.
The Mercedes slowly turned into the parking lot, keeping a respectful distance, which worked to his advantage.
“Go to the edge of the lot and turn right at the end of the row, as if you’re coming back around the other side looking for a better parking spot, and slow down so I can jump off.”
“Where are you going, Jack?” she asked.
“To communicate,” he said, smiling, a hand on the doo
r handle as they approached the corner.
“What?” asked Angela and Dago in unison.
“Trust me. This is what I do. They want to mess with us. I’m going to give it right back at them,” he replied, opening the door the moment Dago turned the corner, momentarily losing sight of the SUV.
“Jack … please be careful.”
“Relax, honey. I’ll be right back.”
Angela punched him lightly on the shoulder as Jack climbed out and closed the door almost seamlessly, watching the truck go by him as he hid behind a parked van.
The SUV approached the corner slowly, windows rolled up, hiding its passengers.
Jack dropped to a deep crouch while moving to the side of the van just as the SUV drove by, coming around while grabbing his SOG knife, fast-walking right up to the SUV’s rear fender on the passenger side, banking that the driver and passengers would be more worried about keeping tabs on Dago’s truck than checking their tail.
He was right.
The driver made no attempt to accelerate as Jack slashed the rear tire, the serrated edge slicing through the wall’s soft rubber, followed by an explosion of air.
Jack pivoted while dropping back to a crouch behind the SUV, getting out of sight from all rearview mirrors while moving to the opposite side just as the brake lights came on, signaling the driver sensing trouble.
But it was too late.
Jack had already shifted the knife to his left hand, blade protruding from the top of his fist as he swung it hard into the wall of the second rear tire, which deflated with another burst of air, before quickly retreating to the safety of the van.
His SEAL mind quickly weighed the benefits of sticking around in the hope of capturing one of them alive as they got out versus running away, and he chose the latter, taking off in Dago’s direction, catching up to the slow-moving truck halfway down the next row.
As he rushed off in a crouch, he heard the SUV doors open behind him, heard someone shout in a foreign language. It sounded … German?
The biker stopped the truck when spotting him, allowing Jack to climb back inside.
“Let’s get the hell out of here before reinforcements arrive.”
The truck leaped forward as Dago punched it and headed back to the highway.
“Jack,” Angie said. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have used my phone to—”
He put a finger to her lips and leaned forward, just inches from hers, before saying, “It’s okay. You owe me one.” He winked as she narrowed her gaze, before adding, “They’ve made us. Miami’s no longer safe. We need a way out.”
“I can get you—” Dago began.
“No,” Jack said. “Thanks, Dago, but you’re just as compromised as Angie and me. And anyone you contact will also become a target. Those were contractors back there.”
“Contractors?” asked Angela.
“Mercenaries. There’s a large international community of very sophisticated bounty hunters that government agencies can activate at the push of a button to do their dirty work and bring wanted individuals into custody, and do so very, very quietly. Discretion is just as critical as delivering results. SEALs use them from time to time in various theaters to gather intelligence on HVTs.”
“High-value targets,” Angela said.
He nodded.
“Those guys back there were Germans. Pete must have activated them.”
“So we’re HVTs now?” she asked.
“Correct.”
“So, what are you thinking, Jack?”
“We need to get that glass token into the right hands, and to do that we need clean transportation,” he replied, staring into her hazel eyes.
“And,” he continued, “I know how to get it.”
9
SURPRISE
Always mystify, mislead, and surprise the enemy if possible.
—Stonewall Jackson
Everything happened very fast.
Angela and Dago instinctively dropped to the floor as another silent round broke through, bursting through the sofa where Dago had sat a moment before.
“Art! Down!” she screamed at the hacker, who started typing very fast while trying to duck under the table.
A round punched the laptop’s screen, embedding itself in the wall behind him, providing the required encouragement for the hacker, who dropped to the floor, pulling down the hardware with him.
“Passcodes … my phone,” Olivia hissed as Angela dragged her feet first from the chair.
“Passcodes in your phone,” Angela repeated as another round buzzed overhead, piercing a hole into the sofa chair. “Got it. What else can you tell us?”
“Daughter … please…”
“You have my word, Olivia. We’ll keep her safe.”
“She … has … nobody…”
“I’ll look after her, Olivia. Do you hear me? I’ll take care of Erika.”
The scientist managed a brief smile before starting to go into shock, her limbs trembling as she began to convulse, coughing blood into Angela’s face.
She wiped it off with a hand while lifting Olivia’s head with the other. “Tell me where, Olivia. Where is my husband?”
“Leaped … he … leaped.”
“Leaped? Leaped where?”
“Passcodes … daughter,” she repeated before her eyes shifted toward her small purse still on the chair. She opened her mouth again but only made guttural, raspy sounds as Dago put a hand on her shoulder.
“Angela, we’ve got to get out of here.”
More rounds cracked windows, exploding plasterboard, splintering wood.
“Where is he, Olivia?” Angela demanded, ignoring him—ignoring everything while grabbing the woman by the lapels, shaking her. “Where the hell is my husband?”
Olivia’s lips trembled, blood coming out of her mouth, her nostrils.
“Tell me!”
“She’s gone, Angela!” shouted Dago, trying to pull her away. “She’s gone!”
Angela stared into her lifeless eyes, anger boiling up inside her. She had been so damn close to finding out the truth.
“Now, Angela!” Dago shouted again. “We need to get out of here!”
She finally let go, before turning to Dago.
“Time to hit the road, Bonnie,” Art-Z said, crawling to them, dragging his backpack as more rounds buzzed inches above their heads.
“Damn right,” said Dago.
Something snapped inside of Angela, and she grabbed Olivia’s purse before clambering toward the garage with them, getting out of sight from the rear windows, from the immediate threat.
Dago surged to his feet, pulling Angela and Art-Z up with ease, before scrambling into the two-car garage monopolized by a large Harley, her Triumph, and a scooter.
“Don’t even think about getting on that fucking thing,” Dago warned Art-Z while Angela donned her helmet and got on her bike.
“Hop on behind me, hacker,” Dago added, extending a thumb over his left shoulder to the small passenger seat on the back of his large bike.
Art-Z stared at his scooter, looking like a toy next to the Harley, which rumbled into life, and quickly obeyed.
They climbed onto the bikes, their engines deafening inside the closed garage until the door finally lifted, sliding overhead, revealing Olivia’s parked car.
They sprung ahead, reaching the street, spotting two figures running down the sidewalk in their direction from their far right, almost a block away, shouting something she couldn’t make out.
Angela squinted, trying to see who they were, for a moment thinking that one of them looked a lot like Captain Riggs holding a gun.
Deciding not to hang around long enough to find out, they pointed their bikes in the opposite direction, burning rubber as they accelerated, working gears and throttle, increasing the gap, drowning their shouts, though she could have sworn she’d heard her name.
But it really didn’t matter.
She wasn’t about to turn around, not
after what they had done to Olivia—what they almost did to them.
Three armed men emerged in between two homes as she accelerated, one of them wielding a massive rifle.
The trio started to train their guns at her when fire erupted down the street, behind her.
Her back itching in anticipation of a bullet, Angela opened the throttle fully in between gear shifts, watching the three gunmen fall to the ground as she reached sixty in four seconds, shooting ahead of Dago and Art-Z.
What was that?
Did Riggs just protect us?
But she didn’t look back, focused on the road, past the men bleeding on the sidewalk, shooting ahead as houses and parked vehicles blurred by, the sound of her engine and the whistling wind drowning everything, her anger, her pain, her anxiety, her confusion—her overwhelming desire to do everything in her power to bring down Hastings and his circle of murderers.
But Jack was alive.
Olivia had confirmed her suspicions, her scientific deductions—her instincts.
Jack was somewhere … leaped was the word she had used, before Hastings’s guns silenced her.
She frowned inside her helmet.
What the hell does leap mean?
But she had Olivia’s purse and her phone, which Art-Z and Angela would be able to dissect, to pick apart and maybe, just maybe, peel the next layer of this complex technical onion, of this mystery that had apparently begun well before Jack jumped from that pod, before he vanished in the upper layers of the atmosphere.
She downshifted, also remembering the promise she had made to a dying mother, popping the clutch and hitting the brakes when reaching the next intersection, leaning into the turn, steering the Bonneville to the right.
Olivia was the enemy, but not by choice. She had been coerced by Hastings in the most inhuman way, threatening her child, whom she was willing to die to protect.
Angela now needed to find a way—and pretty damn quick—to get to Erika before Hastings’s people.
Dago followed close behind, catching up to her after the turn, Art-Z’s arms wrapped tightly around the biker’s waist, the side of his face pressed against the denim vest, eyes shut.
The sight, combined with the knowledge that Jack was alive, plus the adrenaline rush from the near miss, almost made her laugh.
The Fall Page 20
