The Fourteenth Protocol_A Thriller

by Nathan Goodman

  “What else? Think! What else ’bout the van?” In his excitement, he bounced up and down. “Think, missy, think.”

  Jana’s eyes landed on the table of bottles whose colors swirled together almost like a bouquet of balloons.

  “Balloons,” she said. “Balloons. The van was a balloon vendor with a great big painted bouquet of balloons on the side.” Then, a thought crossed her mind that made her throat tighten. Mama loons. “Oh my God, Mama loons. Loons! Loons! Bal-loons,” Jana yelled. “That little boy at the house in Queens . . . he, he kept saying those words. Loons, Mama! Loons! Mamaloons! Maybe he saw a balloon truck drive by his house?”

  She snapped her head back to the old man, “Do you see any balloons around here?”

  “Heh?”

  “Balloons! Do you see anyone holding balloons?”

  They both spun around, looking in all directions and scanning for any hint of color.

  “I ain’ seen no balloons, missy!” bouncing in his boots and laughing. “Not a dang’d one!”

  Jana tore off down the hill. Behind her, the old man jumped up and down and knocked into his own table. Bottles rocked into one another and fell, bouncing and breaking as they hit the ground.

  “Go git ’em, missy!” he yelled, jumping up and down. “Go git ’em! This is America, gosh dangit!”

  Jana bolted down the hill, darting in between people, vehicles, and booths, and yelling into the radio, “Abort! Abort! It’s a white van! A white van. A huge painting of balloons on the side. South half of sector six! Converge on the south half of sector six!”

  Latent yelled back into the radio, “All units, all units. Move! Sixty seconds! I say again, we’ve got sixty seconds before detonation! Converge on the south half of sector six!” Latent himself broke into a sprint up the hill. The sheriff’s deputy watched in horror, having no idea what was about to happen, but knowing, whatever it was, it was bad.

  Latent had another flashback to the football field at Georgetown. He shouldered into two people, never slowing.

  Jana was at a dead run, weapon in hand, and screaming at people to get out of the way. Just the sight of her elicited screams as she smashed into one person after another. She leapt over a large cooler, gasping for breath as she reached the van. She slid just past, skidding to a stop at the back doors. Without a thought or an instant’s hesitation, she raised the gun and fired three rounds in rapid succession into the door lock, then ripped the door open. People screamed and ran in all directions as she was greeted with a hail of gunfire coming at her from point-blank range. The man was firing with his right hand while his left hand reached deep inside a large metal cylinder. The first few rounds sizzled by her face and shoulder as she fired back, squeezing the trigger in rapid succession and unleashing a spitfire torrent of flame and bullets from her Sig Sauer. Jana felt loud, crashing thumps smash into her torso as everything in her vision went hazy. The next instant, her head slammed into the ground, and everything flashed an electric black. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung thick against her nostrils.

  The firefight had lasted less than two seconds. Everything was buzzing in her head, and she could no longer hear the screams as people scrambled in all directions. As quickly as the cacophonous gunfire had ruptured the relative calm of the festival, everything in her hearing went suddenly silent.

  Moments passed, and people from all sides began to stand up. Latent charged forward, panting to catch his breath, and saw a small circle of people gathered around the back side of a van. Another group formed about fifty feet away as apparently a bystander had been hit in the crossfire.

  As the blackness faded, Jana’s eyes focused onto the gloriousness of the blue sky above. And there, silhouetted amongst the clouds, was a picture from her oldest memory as a little girl. She was sitting in her grandpa’s lap, rocking back and forth on the porch of his farmhouse. Rocking. Just rocking, ever so slowly . . .

  “We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special report. Reports are coming in now that a large-scale terrorist attack may have just been thwarted by federal authorities. Details of the type of attack are unknown at this time, but AP News is reporting a full-scale evacuation is under way at this hour, for all people in a fifty-square-mile radius of Pineville, Kentucky. Speculation is swirling that this may have been a nuclear threat, requiring the massive evacuation; however, federal authorities will neither confirm nor deny this allegation. There are fifteen known casualties at this time—two are confirmed fatalities. An FBI agent is one of the casualties and is listed in critical condition with injuries that are described as grave. The agent’s identity is being withheld. WBS News has learned of the two fatalities—one, the alleged terrorist, the other, a woman identified only as Atlanta resident, Alyssa Josephine McTee, twenty-three, who lived in Atlanta’s Little Five Points area. More on this breaking story . . .”

  104

  . . . and if no one’s Uncle John is out in the wood lot west of town banging away at quail or pheasant; if the only sound is the slow beat of your heart, you can hear another sound, and that is the sound of life winding down to its cyclic close, waiting for the first winter snow to perform last rites.

  —Stephen King, Salem’s Lot

  The low pulse of a digital monitor beeped with each heartbeat. Jana felt like she was in a dream. Yet, an unbelievable feeling of calm ushered into her core. There was no pain. It felt simply like all the worry in the world had vanished. At first, she didn’t want to open her eyes, but after a few minutes, she realized she couldn’t open them. She couldn’t move either, for that matter. Yet the feeling of calm so permeated her, she saw no need for worry. Instead, she lay listening to the faint sound of music playing somewhere in the distance.

  Little visions appeared to her. Beautiful light shimmering off old glass bottles, soft crinkly skin on a smiling face so reminiscent of her grandfather, running through a crowd of people, and lastly, she saw her head slamming into the ground as everything went black. Then, she heard faint voices that seemed to be in the room with her, muffled as though they were speaking into a thick paper bag.

  “. . . she’s got a fighting chance. That’s what you need to hold onto, son,” said the voice.

  “Doctor, come on,” said another person. “I’ve been in love with this girl from the moment I laid eyes on her. We’ve just been through the most terrifying events of our lives. I owe my life to her. Level with me. Look me in the eye and tell me the truth.”

  The doctor removed the hospital-green surgeon’s cap but couldn’t loosen his gaze off his shoes.

  “Her chances are not good,” said the doctor. “We’ve done everything we can for her. It’s not in my hands any longer. All we can do is wait. Stay with her, son. Stay with her and pray. She may be in a coma, but sometimes patients respond to the presence of loved ones.”

  The doctor put his hand on Cade’s shoulder.

  “Pray for her, son. I’m just a doctor. I don’t make the big decisions. Pray to the man upstairs. He’s deciding if he needs her more here, or up there. Pray to him.”

  Jana drifted in and out of what she thought of as consciousness. But as some of the haze lifted, she came to understand she was in a hospital. She couldn’t move anything. The word coma hung in the forefront of her mind. Things came to her in clips and bits—muffled conversations, the occasional nurse taking vital signs, and voices, familiar, yet hard to place.

  Director Latent stood in the doorway and could just overhear Cade’s conversation with the physician. As the physician left, Latent eased into the room and put his hand on Cade’s shoulder.

  “How’s our patient?” he said to Cade.

  Cade looked despondent. “Not good,” he said, “not good.”

  “When’s the last time you ate something?”

  Cade’s gaze drifted out the window. “I knew her, you know.”

  Latent looked at Jana. “Jana? You knew Jana? I know the two of you were close . . .”

  “No, not Jana. I knew her, the other victim, t
he other victim at the shooting. Alyssa”—Cade let out a long exhale—“her name was Alyssa McTee.” Latent stared at him until the name registered in his mind. “We met at a restaurant just outside of Quantico right before Kyle’s graduation. It was a fluke thing, I guess.”

  Latent shook his head in disbelief. “Cade, I know this has been an emotional rollercoaster for you. It’s been that way for all of us.” Latent drew in a deep breath of his own and held it.

  “You look like you’ve got something to tell me,” said Cade.

  “I do.” The director crossed his arms, then he too looked out the hospital room’s window to the tree line in the distance, searching for the right words.

  “Mr. Director,” said Cade, but then he was cut off.

  “Steve, please. Call me Steve.”

  “Okay,” said Cade. “Steve, look, whatever it is, you may as well just say it. I’m not sure things can get much worse.” Cade looked over at Jana.

  “You’ll have to understand, there’s been a lot of security concerns. We didn’t want anyone to know. It’s about . . . it’s about Kyle. There’s more you should know about Kyle. But now’s not the time. There are more important things at the moment,” he said, looking down at Jana.

  “What about Kyle?” said Cade. “What, you mean like something about the way he died?”

  Latent exhaled, lost in thought. After a few moments, he said, “Yeah, something like that.”

  The director put his hand to his mouth.

  “That night. The night Kyle died, there was another team . . .”

  “Director?” said an agent in the doorway with a thick voice. “I’m sorry to interrupt. There’s someone here to see Agent Baker. This is Mr. Herbert Deere. He says he was with Agent Baker just before the shooting. He’d like to visit with her, if it’s all right. I’ve confirmed his identity and that he made an earlier statement to our team.”

  Latent looked genuinely glad for the interruption. Cade, however, wanted to hear more.

  “Mr. Deere. Yes, sir. Yes, thank you, Agent McDaniel, I’ll take it from here. I’m very glad you’re here, sir,” said Latent.

  The old man looked uncomfortable, as if he had dropped his Bible during church services and everyone turned to stare. The man’s eyes darted back and forth between Cade and Latent while his lower lip quivered, a straw hat rotating in his hands.

  “How’s young missy a’doin? She don’ look so good,” he said, choking back his emotions. “She don’ look so good a’tall.” He nodded in respect to Cade.

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Deere, I’ll level with you. In this past week, I’ve read all statements taken from the scene. I read your statement . . . as well as the details of the background check we ran on you.”

  Herbert looked at Latent from the corner of his eye.

  “Yes, sir, I’m sorry about that,” said Latent. “We do that kind of thing. We had to be thorough.”

  “Yessir. I s’pose you do.”

  “Your background said you served during the battle of Iwo Jima? I want to thank you for your service to the United States. I mention that because if you’ve been there, and stood on that ground, you’ve seen some of the worst things imaginable. I think you deserve to know the truth. Agent Baker is not doing well.” He glanced at Cade. “She’s not expected to survive, Mr. Deere. It’s all we can do to just sit here with her and pray.”

  Herbert’s head nodded up and down, but he didn’t say a word; the hat being crushed in his rotating hands spoke volumes.

  “Like to sit with her a spell, if’n you don’ mind none.”

  “She’d like that, sir,” said Latent. “She’d like that very much. Cade? Would you mind if Mr. Deere came in for a bit?”

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Cade wiped his eye on his shirt sleeve and said, “No, not at all. I’ll just step out. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

  “Thank ye, son.”

  The two men left, and the only sounds in the room were that of the heart monitor and Herbert’s breathing. As the door swung closed, the old man looked at all the machines and tubes attached to Jana. He shuffled forward, afraid to make any noise, then looked back over his shoulder. He took Jana’s soft hand in his and stood, rocking back and forth. A teardrop landed on the back of his hand and he whispered, “You jes hang in there, little missy. You jes hang in there. I tol’ cha. This is America, and it’s a place would’n’ be the same without you in it. Jes, jes hang in there, little missy.”

  Herbert looked up at the heart monitor. Its beeping had slowed and changed in tone. A red light on the device started flashing. Moments later, a nurse burst through door.

  “Step back please, sir,” said the nurse, rushing to check Jana’s vitals. The beeping slowed further, and then, the heart monitor’s piercing alarm sounded in one, long, continuous shrieking cry.

  The old man shuffled back against the wall.

  “Oh Lordy, oh Lordy,” was all Herbert could muster from underneath his breath.

  The nurse ripped a phone receiver from the wall.

  “Code blue, 2117. Crash cart, 2117. Code blue.” She was calm, but her tone urgent.

  The heart monitor painted a flat green line. Herbert averted his eyes and pulled open the door, holding it for the approaching medical team running down the pristine white hallway. A physician and four nurses bolted in with a medical cart, and the yelling began.

  In the hallway, Stephen Latent held Cade by the shoulders.

  “Let them work, son. Let them work.”

  Jana couldn’t tell if she was hearing people around her or if she was dreaming again, but the distant sound of music, coming from somewhere, increased; it was familiar and intoxicating. She sat straight up and looked around. A hazy fog clouded her vision; everything glowed around the edges. But as things came into focus, she could see she was back on her grandpa’s farm.

  The smell of scrambled eggs, just fried in the morning’s bacon grease, wafted through the screen door and was strong enough to almost touch. The sun was huge and low on the horizon, yet didn’t hurt to stare at. In fact, it was the most comfortable, beautiful light she had ever seen. Thick dew glistened on hundreds of rows of baby corn. A burnt umber hue emanated from the horizon, which seemed to stretch on forever across the farm’s rolling flatlands. Her grandfather sat on the porch in his old rocking chair. As Jana traversed the three creaking porch steps, he set aside the tall glass of iced tea and rose. His smile was as big as the morning sun was wide. The two embraced.

  “I’ve been sittin’ here a spell, just waitin’ to see if you’d come,” he said. “I got your music on. Got breakfast inside.”

  Jana looked in through the screen door, past the sitting room, and into the kitchen beyond. It was exactly as she remembered it.

  “Grandpa? Is this heaven?”

  His smile was approving and warm.

  “I’m so proud of you, sweet pea. So proud.”

  Jana stared into the house; the music was coming from somewhere inside.

  Can you take me with you? said the song’s lyrics.

  She looked back into his eyes and saw something that looked like an outline around the baby blue. It was like a gateway to the edges of his soul. The outline represented purity; it was clean, it was white, and it was unending. She glanced back at the sun.

  “I tried so hard, Grandpa. Tried so hard. I just wanted you to be proud of me, that’s all. Proud of my life.”

  The music continued, and Jana struggled against its pull.

  To the place where lame men walk.

  “I never wanted you to feel like you had ta live up to somethin’,” he said. “But you did. There’s never been a grampa more proud, ever.”

  Can you take me with you?

  “I think I understand the words to the song now, Grandpa. It’s about heaven, isn’t it? They’re singing about heaven.”

  To the place with gold-lined streets.

  “Yes, sweet pea. It is.”

  “Is it my time now, Grandpa?” Jana turned
and faced the sun, and this time, could not avert her eyes. “Is it my time? Do I get to choose?”

  “Everybody out of the way! Set three hundred,” yelled the doctor, shock paddles in hand.

  “Three hundred,” returned a nurse.

  The doctor applied the paddles to Jana’s chest.

  “CLEAR!”

  Jana’s body rocketed upward. Everyone held their breath and looked over at the heart monitor.

  105

  Weeks earlier, during the raid on the corporate headquarters of Thoughtstorm, Inc., inside the stairwell.

  More gunfire erupted from above. Had their ears not been already ringing, the sound would have been deafening. But this was different. An assault team had entered the stairwell somewhere above them and was engaging the CIA officers in a pitched gun battle. In all likelihood, the CIA had assumed the building was under attack by forces unknown, and moved to defend it. In all the chaos, they never realized they were shooting at FBI agents.

  The smoke that obstructed their view on the stairwell also provided cover. They had to go and Kyle knew the time was now. With all his strength, he jumped up and said, "Move! Move now! We're going." But as quickly as he was up, he collapsed on the landing in front of them.

  "Kyle!" screamed Cade.

  Kyle's injuries were far worse than he wanted to admit. He could barely inhale, his head was spinning, and all the energy in his body was draining out. He couldn't stand and began coughing up blood. The unfamiliar salty taste in his mouth shocked him.

  Kyle's consciousness faded, then began to falter. He was flashing in and out and his thoughts raced back to six months ago to a training exercise he had been involved in on the Marine base at Quantico. In his memory, he and several other FBI trainees were in the middle of a live-fire exercise and were seemingly pinned down. They were being led across the training course by their instructor, a retired Navy SEAL who began to tell them a story about his senior chief petty officer during their third tour in Afghanistan together. In the forest of the Marine base, bullets were whizzing overhead, simulated explosions were all around them, but this battle-hardened veteran casually launched into a lesson as though they were all back in a classroom in grade school. In his retelling, his SEAL team had gotten into the worst situation imaginable. The SEALs were in a group of six in a remote section of the Pashtun region of Afghanistan, a rocky, mountainous area, and Taliban stronghold. They were engaged by a mass of sixty or more heavily armed fighters. Several of the SEALs were hit, but worst was the senior chief who was gravely wounded and died right in front of them. "He kept telling us to leave him behind, to save ourselves, but we wouldn't. Hell, it's in our code; leave no man behind. We couldn't leave one of our own behind. We'd rather die right there with him. But in the end, he saved us by dying. Him dying was the only reason we made it out of there alive. See boys, once he died, we no longer had the burden of trying to save him, to carry him out of there. That left us free to go. It was the one thing that made it possible for us to escape that night." The instructor put his hand on Kyle's shoulder. "See that instructor over there? Well, that's him. That's my senior chief."