by Dowell, Trey
The big prize of the briefcase came at the bottom, wrapped in plastic and wedged between foam inserts. When I saw the glint of silvery metal, I became a ten-year-old at Christmas again. The one thing I missed from the old days: a tactical gauntlet. Back then, each of us had one, and they were mostly for show, but it was a helluva show. The gauntlet was a combination smartphone, secure video-comm link, and mobile computer, engineered into a ceramic/titanium cuff that slid over the wearer’s forearm. On the back of the device was a layer of pressurized gel; once you put the gauntlet on, a button below the small video display inflated the gel and fitted the cuff snugly to the contours of your forearm. It felt like a part of you—a Wi-Fi, satellite-enabled, all-the-information-you-ever-wanted, kick-ass part of you.
So I like gadgets. Sue me.
Problem was—only one device in the case. When I looked at Lyla, she must have noticed the drool.
“I’m not wearing that silly thing. Consider it yours.”
When I felt the gel squeeze my forearm, I’ll admit: pure tech-boy bliss. Damn, the gauntlet was so freaking sweet. Only downside was my sleeve was loose enough to slide over and cover the device completely. No one would even know I was the coolest man alive. Lyla laughed when she saw me preening with my newest toy.
“You are ridiculous.”
“Says the woman who looked like she was gonna cry when I made her leave her machine gun in our stolen car.”
“Touché.”
By 4 p.m. we were back at the Lairg to throw our new acquisitions into travel backpacks and change clothes. I had a pang of longing when I stuffed my torn, scraped duster into a pack, but it needed to be put away. From now on, low profile was more important than badass.
After we packed it was time to leave Scotland, but not in the usual way. The airport was definitely off-limits. As soon as MI5 got wind of us in Inverness, there was no question every airport and train station in Scotland would be crawling with undercover personnel. Not to mention red flags installed in every computer, every passport ID file, and every security system in transit stations all over the northern United Kingdom. All conventional methods of travel out of Scotland would be monitored.
Except one.
We took a taxi down to the waterfront and got dropped off near the largest pleasure boat harbor the cabbie knew. The weather had cleared and row upon row of private boats now swayed before us, bathed in late-afternoon sun. Several were magnificent sailboats with masts stretching high above, but we were much more interested in the motor yachts toward the end of the pier. The big ones, with five-hundred-plus-mile range. Didn’t take long to find one with an owner on board: the Aileana, a gorgeous sixty-footer. She was owned by a jovial Scot named McTavish, who was only too happy to talk to a pretty lady. He didn’t seem nearly as enthused with her skittish companion, who was starting to imagine assault teams moving in the shadows of the pier. I couldn’t relax when we were so damn close to getting beyond MI5’s grasp. Still, Lyla was our ticket to ride, and when McTavish revealed that the Aileana was fully fueled, she turned on powers beyond charm.
An hour later, we cleared the cape at North Berwick and headed into the North Sea. McTavish brought the helm around south and belted out a hearty “Well? Where do ye want to go?”
I said, “Is Amsterdam too far?”
“Not a problem, lad. Only a wee four hundred miles from here . . . can have ye there by mornin’ so long as yuir willing ta take a shift at the wheel tonight.”
Done and done. The risk of anyone looking for us on the Continent was low to begin with, but if you had to pick a country to enter illegally, might as well be the Netherlands. I’d never been, but you gotta figure port security isn’t quite so tough in a country where it’s legal to buy marijuana brownies at Starbucks.
In the end, we didn’t have to worry about security, port or otherwise. Rather than go the long way east around the peninsula and down into the Amsterdam harbor, McTavish suggested a shorter route. He cruised directly to the nearest shoreline under cover of darkness and dropped anchor a hundred yards off the coast. We were near an empty part of the wide peninsula that protected Amsterdam from the open sea. A large national park occupied this section, which meant lots of trees, no lights, and even better, no people. McTavish took us to a secluded beach on the rocky shore in his landing craft, a ten-foot dinghy with an outboard motor. I slipped him a chunk of our casino cash in return for his help. From the beach, the gauntlet’s GPS got us to the main road running through the park. By sunrise, we were nothing more than two hikers with backpacks, happy to accept a ride from friendly strangers who were (after a brief talk with Lyla) also on their way to Schiphol Airport, west of Amsterdam.
CHAPTER 24
Once in the car, my stress level practically evaporated. Airports, however, have a funny way of concentrating that vapor and raining it back down on you in buckets. Especially airports where you don’t speak the languages you hear coming from all directions. While a part of me always liked the thrill of new places, a much bigger part focused on the current reality: unfamiliar meant unsafe. Ask a blind guy. Running is dangerous when you don’t know what’s around the corner. We bought our tickets with the fake documents provided in the CIA goody bag, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to fully relax until we were on that plane.
I muttered my disbelief out loud. “The only place I’ll feel safe is on a one-way flight to Iran.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to see how crazy it sounded out loud.”
“And?”
“Yep. Pretty crazy.”
“Welcome to my world,” Lyla said.
She stood in front of me in the security line, examining her fingernails and rolling her head to stretch her neck. It was hard not to marvel. I was coming up on six straight days of constant pursuit, and it wore on me like heavy chain mail. She’d been at this for how long? A month? Two? She looked like she was getting on a plane to go to Euro Disney. Granted, a good night’s sleep had something to do with it, but I couldn’t take all the credit. Lyla was simply better at this stuff than I was . . . dealing with stress, remaining calm. It’d be a long time before I forgot her grabbing those rifles and taking out the chopper: Oh, here we are . . . problem solved. Nice gun. I’m hungry, let’s eat.
“What?” She’d noticed my stare.
“Uh, nothing. Just thinking.”
“Well, gawk less when you think. It’s embarrassing.”
“You suck.”
“You wish. Don’t worry about the security scan, I’ll take care of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“The gauntlet. Keep it on—walk through the scanner.”
I’d forgotten about the gauntlet completely. “It’s gonna set off the detectors.”
Lyla brushed my complaint away. “I said I’ll take care of it.”
Sure enough, the metal detector buzzed the moment I walked through the empty doorway. Security made me walk through again, with the same result. When the guy pulled me aside for a wand check, Lyla went, too.
The guard protested in accented English, “Please, miss, return to the line.” A man accustomed to wielding power over annoying travelers, the guard stiffened and put his arm up to block her. Lyla looked like a harmless wife, clinging to her husband. Once she drew close, she was anything but.
“I do not need to return to the line.” I could hear the vibrato of her voice. Even with her hypno-vision neutralized by the contacts, she had more than enough power to go around. The guard’s eyes didn’t glaze over; they melted. His body and stance, though, remained just as before. The change was unnoticeable unless you were staring directly at him.
“You don’t need to return to the line,” he said. Stone-faced.
“There is no problem here. Wave your wand over his body without pressing the button,” she whispered. The guard did as she commanded. “Now tell him he is fine and
to have a nice flight.”
He nodded. “You’re fine, sir. Have a nice flight,” he said, then waved us through.
The five seconds it took to get outside earshot of security was one of the longest waits of my life. I could barely contain my enthusiasm. In the past, the power of her voice alone wasn’t nearly so effective. The guard’s embrace had been instantaneous, but even better, it didn’t overwhelm the poor guy. I knocked shoulders with her as we walked toward the gate.
“Tell me you just Jedi-mind-tricked security.”
“You are a child,” she said, but she was grinning.
“Tell me you just Jedi-mind-tricked security!” I repeated it three more times before she bumped my shoulder in return.
“I Jedi-mind-tricked security.” The smile spread over her features and she laughed.
Men throughout the terminal did double takes as we walked down the concourse. Judging from the fiery glances of their significant others, there’d be some chilly evenings in store for the onlookers. Without reading their minds I knew what every one of the gawkers thought:
Daaaamn.
As I stopped by a water fountain, one guy came up to Lyla and started spewing a stream of “beautiful”-this and “bella”-that, only to finally scamper off as I returned and put my arm around her. He had no idea he’d dodged an entire clip of bullets. Lord knew what kind of humiliation Lyla had in store for him if he’d carried on.
I wasn’t with Lyla like he thought, not anymore . . . but, God, I was beginning to notice how easily the old feelings overwhelmed the memory of despair and the ever-present doubt. I felt like I did seven years ago—the very beginning—when I walked into a meeting room and realized I was in serious, serious trouble.
—
“They’re an unusual bunch,” the general says with his hand curled around the doorknob. “But I’m sure you’ll be fine.” He’s trying to be reassuring, but he sucks at it. My hunch is he’d say the same thing before ordering a charge into No-Man’s-Land. I’ve been a CIA Special Operations field agent for approximately fifteen minutes, and I’m about to meet the team he says I’m supposed to lead.
“Ravzi arrived yesterday, finished her physical and paperwork this morning. She’s got a ten-minute head start on meeting the others.”
“Ravzi, the mind-control chick.” I repeat her name because I’m trying to remember it; didn’t know she existed until fourteen minutes ago. The others were all over the Internet and TV, worldwide celebrities, but Ravzi’s a mystery.
The general’s hand falls away from the knob. “If I were you, that’d be the last time I call her a ‘chick.’ ”
I nod, but it’s too enthusiastic.
“Couple of things to remember: Ravzi doesn’t like to be touched. Keep your distance and let her approach you.”
“Got it.” I’m staring at the door, eyes open so wide they hurt.
“And whatever you do . . .” The general grabs the knob again but doesn’t finish the sentence until I turn to look at him. “Don’t hit on her.”
“What?”
“No flirting. Don’t compliment her. If she doesn’t know you, it pisses her off.”
He opens the door. The space is big, filled with rows of long rectangular metal tables and folding chairs, like a high school cafeteria. The screech of bending metal yanks my head to the left and the general growls a tired “What the fuck?” I get the feeling he says it a lot.
The largest man I’ve seen in my life is sitting on the ground twenty feet away. He’s wearing a T-shirt and overalls big enough to fit a silverback gorilla. His back is turned so I can’t see his face, but it’s easy to see what he’s doing. He’s methodically pulverizing one of the tables—wrenching the legs under the flat surface, then folding the surface in half, then half again—until he has a jagged, deformed cube of metal between his huge hands. Three other table-cubes are stacked by his side.
The general shouts, “Walker!”
The giant’s head turns. I expect to see an ogre’s face, contorted in rage, but I don’t. His features are young, clean-cut. A mop of unruly brown hair sits atop his gigantic head. When he sees us, he lights up like a golden retriever. The giant bounces to his feet and rushes over, but his walk is strange; an exaggerated bowlegged gait and he keeps reaching back and pulling at the crack of his overalls as he comes. When the hulk stops in front of us, the general notices the sharp odor.
“Walker, what the hell is going on? What’s that smell?”
A goofy smile curls on the giant’s face. He declares with pride, “I made boom-boom!” Then he turns to me and says, “Hi! My name’s Carsten, you wanna play blocks with me?” He motions to his collection of crushed tables. I’m using every single molecule of willpower trying not to laugh. I look at the general.
“Uh, is he always like this?”
The military man is not amused. “Goddammit, no. He must have—”
The loud snaps coming from our right cut him off. In the corner stands a thin man dressed completely in black. Boots, jeans, and a button-down oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair is almost as dark as his clothing, and it’s long—Harlequin Romance book-cover long—and it droops over his face. I should say “what’s left of his hair” is long because he’s losing it fast. He grips thick hunks, pulls them taut with one fist, then uses a finger from his opposite hand to fire miniature bolts of electricity to sever the locks from his scalp. Each time he releases a tiny bolt I hear a pop like a loud finger snap. The smell of burning hair is pleasant compared to whatever atrocity oozes in the giant’s underwear.
“Mendoza!” the general shouts. “What in the fuck are you doing?”
Fabio is muttering something in between giggles, but I can’t hear him. When I walk closer, I detect an almost incomprehensible stream of words.
“Shelikesshorthairhavelonghairneedshorthairneeditbad . . .”
All the while, he’s vaporizing chunks of his mane and cackling in joy at the progress. I look at the general and my expression speaks louder than the pops.
What the hell is wrong with these guys?
The general issues a grunt of tired frustration. “Goddammit. They hit on her.”
I finally notice the small woman sitting on a table farther back in the room. She’s parked on the edge, hands curled around the lip of the table, and her legs kick back and forth in slow rhythm. She’s still wearing the light blue surgical scrubs from her physical and her hair is perched in a high ponytail. She has the chiseled cheekbones and pointed chin of a model; reminds me of the women you see on magazine covers, but in real life, no Photoshop. Some of her dark hair has escaped the ponytail and the fugitive tendrils wind down to rest in the tan hollows of her neck. I’ve never wanted anything in my life as much as I want to be closer to this woman, but it’s not desire driving me.
It’s awe.
Without knowing, I take slow steps forward until the multicolored eyes stop me. They might be astonishing, but even in my state of slack-jawed admiration, I can tell they aren’t happy.
“I’m Lyla,” she says in a delicious British accent.
A full five-count passes before I blurt out, “Nice to meet you.”
A tiger shark’s smile lurks below swirling eyes.
“Go ahead,” she says. “Tell me I’m beautiful.”
—
“It does not bother me as much as it used to,” Lyla told me in the boarding line.
“Only woman I know who hates being told she’s beautiful.”
“Being told never angered me. It was always about the person doing the telling.”
“Would it bother you if I said it?”
She cocked her head and pursed her lips, as if considering the question. The decision was either loaded with complexity or Lyla just wanted to screw with me; I gave both options fifty-fifty odds. Finally she walked another step forward in line saying
, “It would not.”
“Good. Because I think you’re a solid six out of ten. Six and a half with your hair down.”
She turned halfway and winked.
“You’re not so bad yourself, McAlister.”
CHAPTER 25
My seat was awful. No one likes getting a boarding pass with a number higher than 30. And when you buy your ticket an hour before the plane leaves, airline karma guarantees a middle seat next to an offensive lineman. Lyla got lucky; she was next to me on the aisle. After we got situated, I grabbed a magazine and tried not to think about the rotund man spilling out of the window seat to my left. Lyla didn’t notice until we were airborne.
“At first I thought you were leaning toward me,” she whispered. “Now I see you’re leaning away from him.”
The encroaching blob in 36A left me banterless.
“You’ve had enough ego boosts the last couple of days. You’ll live.”
“Would you like to sit in first class?”
“Sure, but they said the flight was full.” For her reaction, I may as well have said “I can’t drive fifty-six in a fifty-five-mile-per-hour zone.” Once I understood, my reaction was automatic. “Do it.”
Five minutes later, two people from first class switched seats with us. I stretched my legs and relaxed while Lyla talked the flight attendant into bringing us some champagne. I hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep on the Aileana, so I looked forward to using the Frankfurt leg to get some rest.
The bubbles in my champagne were hypnotic. The first sip was good, but after the second, the guilt started. Lyla recognized my expression and didn’t hesitate to call me on it.
“You’re upset with me because we moved up here, aren’t you? You asked me to do it.”
“I’m disappointed in myself, not you.”
“More of your ‘slippery slope’ nonsense.” She grabbed the in-flight magazine and ripped through the pages without reading.
“Now it’s nonsense? I remember when you were more serious about restraint than I was.”
