The Fourteenth Protocol_A Thriller

by Nathan Goodman

  Baker spun around in a frantic search; that van could be blocks away by now. She needed a car, and she needed one right this second. She looked back at the man, his tie-dyed shirt muted against the backdrop of steam rising from the plate of searing food.

  “FBI. I need your car. I need your car right now,” she demanded, speaking through clenched teeth, credentials in front of her.

  “Holy crap, man, you mean like FBI, FBI? No way.” He gazed at the identity card and badge; it was the only thing that could draw his attention away from staring at her body.

  Jana pocketed the credentials. “Your car,” she said with her hand extended. “Where’s your car? Right now, goddammit,” she repeated, grabbing his shoulder. “Give me your keys. Which one is it?”

  His mouth hung open, still full of food. “Right there, man,” he said, pointing to a black Volkswagen Beetle. He fished the keys from his pocket, dropped them on the ground, then hit his head on the table bending over to pick them up.

  “Ow! Shit, man,” he said with one hand on his head and one handing over the keys. Jana snatched them and bolted for the car.

  “A Beetle, that figures,” she said, revving the engine. She threw the car in gear and tore off, her right hand knocking down the little plastic flower affixed to the dash.

  The man stood up, his napkin dropping to the ground as he watched his baby disappear.

  Jana gunned the accelerator in a frantic dash to catch the van, only guessing where it might have headed. She flew down Euclid Avenue past Hurt Street and blew a red light at fifty miles per hour. They can give me a ticket if I don’t die. She flew past the last stretch of Inman Park, her head wrenching in all directions as she scanned for the white van. The light at Randolph Street was red, and she slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt.

  A blur of white crossed her vision and then disappeared. She threw the steering wheel to the right and blasted out into traffic. A Honda Accord locked its brakes, and a minivan screeched to the left to avoid crashing into the Honda. Baker’s foot jammed the accelerator to the floor. It was the van. She had to close the huge gap between them. The Beetle just wasn’t quick enough.

  “Damn hippie car!” she screamed as the engine whined in complaint.

  The gap was closing, and Jana started to catch her breath. She glanced in the rearview mirror, desperate to see the arrival of her backup, but knew it was a lot to ask for field agents to close in on her tracking device so quickly.

  The van headed over Freedom Parkway and continued up Randolph. She was now close enough to the van to maintain a safe distance without being detected. As they neared Ponce de Leon Avenue, the van slowed and jerked to the right.

  Baker rounded the corner and took note of a sign that said “Ponce City Market.” The Beetle moved slowly as she watched the van turn into the construction entrance of Atlanta’s sprawling City Hall East building complex, a massive six-story brick building built decades earlier and formerly housing much of the Atlanta city government. The building had fallen into disrepair in recent years and was being redeveloped. The van crunched slowly across the gravel parking area, past a huge pile of broken concrete at least thirty feet high, and came to a stop at the edge of the building.

  Baker froze. What the hell do I do now? She had to get her car out of sight. Ponce de Leon was bustling with six lanes of traffic. All she could do was pull the car up on the sidewalk, just out of the van’s view. But just as she popped the driver’s door open, she jerked it back as a car in the right lane careened past, nearly tearing it off. Once the lane was clear, she jumped out of the car and ran up to the corner of the building, being sure to stay out of the van’s field of view. She pushed open a rusted metal door into the cavernous brick monstrosity. The door scraped against the buildup of grit on the cement floor. Inside, there was a broken window and a set of stairs. This was obviously an exit stairwell. A breeze blew across the jagged edges of broken glass. More glass crunched under her feet as she peered out the window. The crunching of glass echoed in the vacant cement stairwell.

  Jana felt so alone; the sheer weight of the endeavor hung on her shoulders. She pulled the camera out of her shoulder bag, squatted down, and peered through the viewfinder as the camera shook in her grip. She could see the Jamaican now; he was close to the edge of the building, talking to someone just out of view.

  It would be mission-critical to photograph whomever he was talking to. Is this his contact? If I move closer I might be seen. Her stomach filled with butterflies and began to cramp—the adrenaline was getting the best of the rookie. Her heart surged in stroke to the firing of the camera shutter. She wanted to throw up, yet she couldn’t move without that photo. It was not only a career-making surveillance she was on, it might mean saving countless American lives. Heat rose over her neck and face as she glanced down, dizzy under the pressure. She gagged, then darted behind the terminating stairwell and vomited. She had never in her life been so scared, so jacked, so overwhelmed with responsibility, yet so exhilarated. She hit her head on the cement staircase as she stood up but determined herself to get that goddamn photo. One thought etched itself into her mind, I’m not going to miss this. Not on my watch. Not on my watch.

  Back at the window, the Jamaican disappeared from sight.

  “Shit,” she said as she muscled out past the scraping door. She glanced around the corner of the building, but they were nowhere to be seen. It was time to make a move, “Right now, right damn now,” she said, as she started a brisk walk out into the open. She was totally exposed, but if she didn’t get into a different position, she’d lose the only chance to see the Jamaican’s contact. She walked straight ahead, keeping her face forward, not daring to turn towards the building. Long hair obscured her face, but a strong gust blew it over her shoulder, kicking up some cement dust. At the street corner, she was hidden from view. She peered between bending branches and tree bows full of new growth with leaves painted a vibrant, springtime green.

  Through all the brush, and barely visible, was the Jamaican and another man. The camera lens revealed little, her view obstructed by the leaves. Jana felt so conspicuous to the cars on the street that she crouched down behind a clump of Bradford Pear trees and again worked the lens. The shutter fired and captured the Jamaican, but the other man was in the shadows, the lens only recording a black blob. Contrasted against dark shadows was brilliant sunlight reflecting off the Jamaican’s brow as the two men talked. Wind gusts kicked up more dust from the cement pile. The camera couldn’t pick up the dark figure but she kept snapping away. Maybe they could enhance the photos back at the field office.

  “Come on, dammit, I need more light,” she said. “Show me your face.” Seconds later the shadowy figure’s hands emerged, one holding a pack of cigarettes. Holy crap, the cigarette lighter! Knowing the cigarette lighter would momentarily illuminate his face, she wrenched the F-stop on the camera into position. The instant the flame ignited, the shutter blazed in automatic fashion, capturing every millisecond. Jana had no idea if she had gotten anything, but something in her peripheral vision caught her eye. It was a tow truck, and it was backing up to the VW Beetle.

  “Oh. My. God,” was the only thing she could come out with.

  Her first thought was to the poor guy who owned the car. But then she realized if one of these subjects got into a vehicle, she was screwed. She’d have no way to pursue. Her eyes darted between the subjects and back to the VW.

  I ought to go throttle that damn tow truck driver, she thought, but stopped herself and instead shot photos of the license plate on the VW and the tow truck, knowing she’d need that information later. Then Jana realized she didn’t have the license plate of the suspect’s van. You stupid rookie, she thought, grateful her supervisor wasn’t there to see that one. Several photos later, close-ups of the van’s plate were captured.

  The tow truck was moments away from leaving with the VW when the Jamaican eased back into the white van’s sliding door. Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. How the hell do
I tail him now?

  The phone buzzed in her pocket and caused her to jump.

  “Baker,” she answered.

  “This is Agent Murphy, HRT right behind you,” said a thick male voice over the phone.

  Baker turned around. On the street behind her was a gray, unmarked work van with several agents inside, all of them members of the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team. They were dressed in workman clothes, and looked at her through tinted windows. Jana was both shocked and relieved.

  “Don’t move,” she said. “Stay right there. You pull any farther forward, you’ll be exposed. Subject vehicle is the white van pulling out.”

  “Roger that,” said Murphy.

  “Wait,” said Jana into the phone, “there’s a second subject still on site.”

  “What? Oh shit,” said Murphy. He paused, thinking on his feet, “all right, you stay on the second subject; we’ve got orders to follow your Jamaican. He’s the known entity. We don’t know who the other subject is.”

  “Stay on him? What the hell does that mean? I’ve got no vehicle!” blurted Baker as the FBI van pulled out onto Ponce de Leon to trail the Jamaican.

  “No vehicle? We tracked you here—how the hell did you get here?”

  “Check the top of the hill, to your twelve o’clock. See the black VW Beetle?”

  Murphy peered up Ponce de Leon through long binoculars.

  “You mean the one that’s pushing that tow truck up the hill?” Murphy smiled, knowing Baker wouldn’t find that funny.

  Baker knew this was a boys’ club, and she’d have to roll with the punches if she wanted to be one of the guys.

  She smiled and into the phone said, “Anyone in HRT ever had their ass kicked by a 118-pound girl?” Jana could see the other agents in the back of the van lean back laughing as their vehicle sped off in stealthy pursuit.

  “Don’t worry,” replied Murphy. “Should be another Bue-car coming up right behind us. We’ll radio and give them the sitrep. This is good work, Baker. Really good work.”

  Jana smiled as a feeling of relief washed over her shaking body. At least one subject was being covered.

  Focusing back on the second subject, she strained through the camera lens but could no longer see him. A vehicle she assumed to be his car was still there, however. Jana looked around for a better place to continue her surveillance. Diagonal across the busy intersection of Ponce and Glen Iris Drive sat a little restaurant called Eats. It had a perfect vantage point if she could somehow find privacy there. She glanced back and forth before crossing six lanes of traffic and entered through the reflective glass door. Inside were a handful of customers seated throughout the sparsely filled room. This location was not going to work. She couldn’t have a restaurant full of patrons staring at her as she pointed high-powered photography equipment at the building across the street. There would be no way of knowing if someone inside would alert her subject. The adrenaline coursing through her system overtook her, and she felt as though she might explode. Before it was too late, she pushed through into the ladies’ room. It was filthy and smelled of stale urine.

  “What a lovely spot,” she said. The excitement and emotion poured out. Although she didn’t need to vomit again, tears burst forth as her erratic breathing accelerated. Jana struggled to get a hold of herself. No agent would lose it right now. No agent! I’m not a fucking little girl anymore. This is real, this is now, and this is me. Now quit your whining. She exhaled hard several times, calming herself down. The other agents can never see me like this, ever.

  Jana collected her bag, determined to not screw up, and shook the nerves out of her system. Back out in the front, a loud car horn blared as she pushed her way through the front door and into the bright sunlight. The smell of black exhaust was thick. Still, there was no activity in the gravel parking lot across the street; the vehicle was still there. How would she explain it if she had lost the new subject? “Ah, sorry, I thought I was going to hurl” wouldn’t sound too convincing.

  Around the side of Eats was a dumpster. It reeked of month-old beer and rotting food, yet would provide an unbelievable view of the gravel lot across the street.

  “Well, you wanted to be in the FBI,” she said, her determination resolute. Behind the building she found the parking lot deserted. Jana jumped through the heavy metal sliding door and into the dumpster. The putrid smell and stagnant air struggled to move in and out of her lungs. She gagged as the taste of vomit lingered in her mouth. Trudging forward over the refuse, Jana slid the other door ajar and looked through the camera lens. Her phone rang again. “Baker,” she said, coughing.

  “Baker, this is Agent Stark; I see your twenty still at the corner of Ponce and Glen Iris. We’re two clicks out and coming your way. What’s the sitrep?”

  Jana’s eyes widened. Stark was the special agent in charge of the Atlanta field office. Normally the SAC wouldn’t be in the field. It was a signal of how big a deal this really was.

  “Yes, sir, status is nominal. I’m positioned across from subject number two. He’s inside the building; his vehicle is a black Ford sedan . . . oh shit, he’s coming out; he’s getting in the vehicle. I say again, subject two is leaving the scene! I have no vehicle. I have no way to pursue.”

  “What? You don’t have a . . . shit, speed up, we’ve got to be there right now!” Stark said to the agent driving the car.

  “No, wait,” Jana said. “He stopped the car. He’s backing up. He’s pulling back into the lot.”

  “All right, Baker, we’re moving your way heavy. Be there in zero-three mics. What’s he doing now?” Jana could hear the siren and a thunderous car engine over the phone.

  “He’s out of the car. Headed back in the building. I think the engine is still running,” Jana said as her breath quickened. The smell of rotting food dissipated as adrenaline again surged into her veins.

  “Baker! Listen to me. Get out of your position. Move as fast as you can to the subject’s vehicle. We can’t lose him. We can’t! You’ve got to plant your tracking device on that vehicle,” demanded Stark.

  “You want me to just go up there and casually drop a tracker into his car? But he’ll see me . . . we need a warrant, don’t we?” Jana stammered.

  “Dammit, Baker! Fuck the warrant. Get that tracker onto his car or we’ll lose him. Do it now!” Stark was screaming.

  There was no way Stark and the other agents would be on the scene before the subject left. Jana had to act. She flung open the sliding door of the dumpster, tripped as she leapt onto the sidewalk, and gouged her knee on the unforgiving pavement in the process. She jumped to her feet, leaving a bloody knee print behind, and sprinted across the street as a car on Ponce de Leon locked its brakes to avoid hitting her. Her feet pounded the pavement; her hair flew back as she charged across onto the gravel lot. She was fully exposed; if the subject came outside now, the surveillance would be blown. She quieted her feet running forward, gravel crunching more quietly now. The tracking device was already in hand. Fifty feet, thirty feet, fifteen feet, almost there, almost there . . . Suddenly, the swinging metal door of the building banged open against the brick facade. Jana ducked behind the car. Out walked the subject; he was fifteen feet away from her, and she had to act fast. She had no way to know if he would walk around the cars’ front or rear. The sound of footsteps switched from cement to gravel.

  She had to chance it and ducked behind the rear side of the car. She reached under the rear metal bumper of the Ford, fishing in terror for a place to stow the tracking device. Even though the device wasn’t meant to be placed on a vehicle, it was designed to be carried by a person, she stuffed the tracker inside the bumper, praying it wouldn’t fall out. The footsteps drew near as the subject rounded the front side of the car and headed straight for the driver’s door. She couldn’t decide where to look—forward at him, because he may see her, or towards the building, fearing someone would be standing there. She wanted to just disappear, if only for a few seconds. The footsteps stopped. The only
sound was that of car tires whining their way up Ponce de Leon. The man wasn’t moving. She held her breath and didn’t dare look up. What the hell is he doing? It felt like time froze; Jana froze; everything went into slow motion. Finally, the car door opened, and he got in. The car pulled away as Jana huddled motionless, terrified he might see her in the rearview mirror. The car pulled onto Ponce and disappeared beyond sight of the building.

  Jana looked to her right to see if anyone was in the doorway. It was empty. Thank God, she thought. She wanted nothing more than to get away from this place.

  This time, the rush of adrenaline felt different. She didn’t want to vomit, she didn’t want to flee, and she wasn’t shaking. She exhaled, and it felt good. The adrenaline was a high, and it was an exhilaration on a whole new level. That was better than sex, well, maybe not all sex, but pretty darn good just the same.

  Back behind the cover of Bradford Pear trees, she pulled out her phone again and realized she had never hung it up—it had been on the whole time. She had been so focused on getting the tracker in place, she’d forgotten about Stark and the other agents rushing to the scene.

  She held the phone to her ear where Stark was speed talking. “Baker? Baker? Dammit, I can’t tell what’s going on . . . Baker?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m here.”

  “Baker? Jesus Christ, are you all right? What’s the situation?” said Stark.

  “We’re good, sir. The tracker is in place. We’re good,” she said.

  “Holy shit! You did it? I mean, you did it. Excellent work, Baker. I could hear footsteps. What happened?”

  The car pulled up, and Stark put the phone down and motioned Jana to the back seat.

  “I did what you told me to do,” she said as she got in. “I hauled ass across the street and stuck the tracker up under his bumper,” said Jana.