The False Door

by Brett King

  “I knew your dad was an attorney. Now you sound like one.”

  “Where did you take Shayna? I need to know.”

  “She’s safe.” Angelilli studied her. “You witnessed Kaylyn Brynstone’s murder. We can’t afford to take chances with Shayna. We moved her to a secure location.”

  “Edgar Wurm told me something the night he died,” Cori said. “He claimed the director of the Central Intelligence Agency wanted the Radix.”

  “Wurm was barking mad,” he snorted. “Guy was in a mental hospital for almost two years.”

  “You know, everyone talks about him being crazy, but I study clinical psychology and I knew him. He was a genius. Now tell me, is it true what he said about Mark McKibbon?”

  “Look, Wurm was convinced everyone was conspiring against him. I can assure you, Ms. Cassidy, the director has more important matters on his mind.”

  The SUV slowed.

  Cori glanced up. “Something wrong?”

  He didn’t answer. The driver pulled behind a matching Suburban parked alongside the highway shoulder. He didn’t turn off the engine.

  Glancing over, Angelilli said, “Get out.”

  “But what if—”

  “Get out, Cori. Now.”

  She didn’t argue.

  She scrambled from the vehicle. Angelilli followed.

  It was a hot night, maybe high eighties. Her heart thundered in her chest. She squinted at the other vehicle as the front passenger door opened. She stopped. A man in a suit stepped onto the pavement. She recognized him as another CIA officer from the hotel room in Times Square. He opened the back passenger door. She didn’t know what to expect.

  Shayna Brynstone jumped out.

  Cori blinked, then gave a teary giggle. Shay ran toward her, arms outspread. Cori dropped to her knees on the gravel beside the road and scooped up the girl, the sharp embrace bringing tears of astonished joy to Cori’s eyes. Shay wrapped her slender arms around Cori’s neck so tight it almost hurt. On her feet now, Cori swung her in a lazy circle, the child’s hair matted against Cori’s tearstained face.

  “Thought I’d lost you.”

  “No, sweetie,” Cori answered in a soft voice, wiping a tear with the back of her thumb. “I’ll never let that happen.”

  “All right,” Angelilli called. “Hate to break up the reunion, but we’re on a tight schedule.” He waved to the first SUV. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are you taking us?”

  “We’ll discuss it later.”

  Cori wasn’t totally comfortable with the CIA and disliked how they kept her in the dark. On the other hand, Kaylyn’s killers were still out there hunting for Shay. Maybe going with the CIA was her best option.

  “Ms. Cassidy, you ride in the middle row. Shayna, go in back.”

  Cori had to hand it to them. Like the Boy Scouts, the CIA came prepared. They had a booster seat waiting back there. There was even a bag of Goldfish crackers.

  Buckled in, Shay was positioned right behind Cori. An agent with short brown hair took the next seat. Agent Ripper was seated beside the little girl.

  “Think you could scoot over, mister?” Shay asked Ripper.

  “What’s the problem?”

  Cori turned in her seat. “She wants you to move, so her imaginary friend can sit there.”

  The agent looked bewildered. “I’m sorry?”

  “Princess Rosalina wants to sit there,” Shay added.

  “Oh, yeah? How about the princess sits on the other side?”

  Standing outside the open door, Angelilli had been talking to the driver. He looked at the backseat now. “Let’s see some cooperation, Ripper. Give up your seat to the princess.”

  Grumbling, the agent unbuckled and moved his big frame farther away from Shay.

  “Can you buckle in Princess Rosalina?” the child asked, all sweetness and light.

  The agent looked at Angelilli.

  Without turning, he ordered, “Do it, Ripper.”

  Nodding, the man stretched out the seat belt as if wrapping it around an invisible lap, then fastened the buckle. He stared for a beat, then reached down to buckle himself.

  Cori swiveled around and faced forward with a smile. The kid was amazing. Not quite six, she already had the CIA doing her bidding.

  “Are you coming with us?” Cori asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Angelilli answered. “Need to take a meeting.”

  “I want to see my brother.”

  “I’ll make it happen.”

  “When?”

  “It’s in the works. Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Cassidy.”

  He closed the door. The Suburban swerved back onto the highway, leaving Angelilli behind.

  For the next ten minutes, Cori chatted with Shay. It was strained, the conversation going back and forth with agents seated beside each of them.

  “Have you talked to my daddy?”

  “We’re trying—”

  Without warning, Shayna screamed and pointed out her window. Eyes bright with surprise, Cori turned to look.

  An out-of-control vehicle was careening toward them. It raced across the lane and smashed into their vehicle. The jarring impact rocked the Suburban and it swerved, spinning out of control. Out of nowhere, another vehicle suddenly hit the front of their car. The Suburban flipped sideways. Buckled in, Cori was slammed face-first into the window as a side airbag burst at her head. Blood spurted across the glass. The vehicle rolled, then came to a hard stop on the road.

  It was over as fast as it had started.

  A sick buzzing sound filled her ears. Her head felt thick and slow. “Shay,” she moaned.

  The brown-haired agent slumped against her shoulder, eyes closed. The driver was propped against an airbag. Pain surged inside her arm, then moved into her neck and up into her forehead. In back, Ripper was sprawled across the seat. Spidery lines of blood crossed his face.

  As if in a hazy dream, she saw the little girl move from her seat. Cori tried to speak, but no sound escaped her bloodied mouth. She saw a cut across Shay’s smooth cheek. The girl kneeled beside Ripper almost like she was praying. What is she doing?

  Her small hand reached out. She touched the forehead of the CIA agent.

  Cori couldn’t keep her eyes open. The image of Shayna Brynstone dissolved in a blurry swirl. Fighting to stay conscious, Cori tried to move, but the airbag pressed against her cheek. She blinked slowly, twice.

  Tilting her head to the side, she saw Shay crawling toward her.

  Cori’s eyes closed as she slipped into a sickening blackness.

  8:44 p.m.

  “Open the doors,” Viktor Nebola ordered as he marched toward the Suburban. In the moonlight, the CIA’s vehicle rested on its side eight feet from the pavement.

  Nebola’s men hurried to the vehicle. In case the CIA came out firing, Wingo went into a fighting stance with his semiautomatic pistol. His eyes looked fierce, highlighted by the white streak in his black hair. With Wingo covering him, Richard Eden opened the door.

  Nebola peered inside the SUV and found a jumble of bodies. Splashes of blood stained the windows. The passengers were fixed in their seat belts except for a small child with the most luminescent pale blue eyes. She was in the middle of it all, staring at Nebola, her mouth frozen in a scream. Her sunlit hair was in disarray, but there wasn’t a cut or even a fresh bruise on her face or slender arms. The child’s small hand was poised in midair, frozen above the still figure of a blonde woman who must be Cori Cassidy.

  Nebola turned to Eden. “Take her.”

  The man reached over the body of a CIA officer and grabbed the child. She kicked and shrieked and generally made a nuisance of herself. Nebola detested children for a multitude of reasons. This one was no different.

  Eden dragged the child from the Suburban. As he lo
aded the screaming child into Nebola’s vehicle, a guy in a red Subaru pulled onto the shoulder. A Korean man climbed out and hurried toward them.

  “We got it under control. Thanks,” Nebola called with a sociable ring in his voice. “Get back in your car. You can take off now.”

  “What’s the problem?” the man said, apparently without listening. His eyes sparkled with concern. “Did you see it happen? Anyone call 911?”

  “Ambulance is on the way. Go back to your car. Seriously, just drive away.”

  “I know CPR,” the Good Samaritan announced. “Hey, where’s he taking that girl?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Nebola muttered. He turned to Wingo. “Would you please shoot this idiot?”

  Wingo reached inside his coat and pulled out an H & K, the gunmetal flashing in the headlights.

  “Don’t shoot.” The man nearly tripped as he stumbled back. “I’ll get outta here. I’m going.”

  “Little late for that,” Nebola sighed.

  Wingo fired. It was a pristine shot that dropped the guy right where he stood.

  “You bragged about knowing CPR,” Nebola called to the fallen man. “Try performing it on yourself.”

  He turned. On his signal, the two SUVs that had slammed into the Chevy Suburban fired up their engines.

  “One second, sir,” Wingo said, stopping him. “Got a female civvy here along with a vehicle full of CIA officers. What you want me to do with them?”

  Nebola patted his shoulder. “Kill them.”

  Lynbrook, New York

  9:07 p.m.

  Stephen Angelilli wanted a cigarette the minute he saw two United States Secret Service agents walking toward him. He had received a message from Mark McKibbon, the CIA director, to discuss protocol for the next phase of Operation Red Opera. In all honesty, Angelilli was curious about the director’s next move. Wonderland was now in their custody, but it was clear the hostiles would stop at nothing to get her.

  He’d expected McKibbon, but not men from the Secret Service’s protective detail.

  “Come with us, sir,” one of the special agents said.

  He followed Secret Service to the back of the warehouse. Turning a corner, he could see Mark McKibbon talking to Vice President Isaac Starr. Both men were interested in Wonderland, but the vice president had taken a lower profile on Operation Red Opera—in part, Angelilli guessed, because President Alexander Armstrong was wrapping up his term and Starr was deep in his first bid to become president. With a big election only a few months away, the man was tearing up the campaign trail. He’d given a stump speech earlier in the day to a capacity crowd in Philly.

  Starr extended his hand. “Sorry to hear about the loss of one of your men.”

  His grip was tight. Angelilli gave a grim nod. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Been a challenging week,” the vice president continued. “Mr. McKibbon tells me you have good news. I could sure stand to hear it.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m pleased to report we were able to bring in Wonderland.”

  He beamed. “Outstanding.”

  Director McKibbon said, “Shayna Brynstone and her father are a long-standing interest for the vice president and myself.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m happy to assist in the operation.”

  The vice president started to speak when Angelilli got a priority call. Excusing himself, he stepped away and took the call from a staff operations officer named Lopez. She had to say it twice before it registered.

  “Wonderland has been abducted. We no longer have her.”

  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It got worse. Lopez briefed him that his men were dead. Shaken but trying to appear composed, he ended the call and walked back to the vice president and the director. Both men watched in silence.

  Angelilli’s hand trembled at his side. Every step seemed like he was trudging through waist-deep snow. He didn’t want to say the words.

  “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I have bad news about Wonderland.”

  Chapter 24

  Prague, Czech Republic

  4:31 a.m.

  A thousand years after arising from the unspoiled Bohemian countryside, Prague had earned its reputation as a “symphony in stone.” The haunting cityscape seemed alive with mysterious spires and medieval curiosities. Steeped in history, every sculpture and tower seemed to whisper the undying legends of the city. At night, it took Brynstone’s breath away.

  He parked the mini-SUV on a darkened side street. Raja climbed out with him, leaving McHardy inside the Škoda Yeti. She went one direction, Brynstone the other, taking it on foot to a cobblestone street called Celetná.

  Located in the heart of the city, Charles University was one of Europe’s oldest universities. Not far from the center campus, the Institute for Classical Archaeology stood on one of the city’s busier streets, leading away from the Old Town Square toward Wenceslas Square.

  Brynstone and Raja had studied schematics for the five-story building. They had outlined a strategy based on entrances, exits, and the location of the helmet piece on the third floor.

  Unlike Prague’s more renowned museums, the Institute for Classical Archaeology was a university-based operation with only two campus security guards. The collection was decent, but not one full of priceless antiquities insured for millions of dollars.

  Brynstone had already placed four wireless micro-cameras at the site. Years ago, he had walked away from the Special Collections Service and quit government work to save his crumbling marriage. Turns out, that wasn’t enough. Back then, he had specialized in the placement of information-gathering devices in high-risk operations and settings. This thing tonight was a cakewalk in comparison.

  Brynstone rejoined Raja near a linden tree. She greeted him with a breathtaking smile. Seeing her face in moonlight, he held her gaze a little longer than expected. Her almond eyes dazzled with contradiction: warm but intense, captivating but elusive. He couldn’t deny a spark of attraction.

  She was all in black tonight including her Gucci sneakers. She’d added leather gloves that extended past her wrists and stopped just shy of her elbows. Raja caught his gaze.

  “Cool gloves, huh?”

  “Let me guess. Gucci?”

  “Lanvin.”

  He didn’t recognize the name. “Tell me they didn’t cost as much as the shoes.”

  “More. Eight hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “You must be a damned good thief. Either that, or you come from money.”

  “Both, actually.”

  She tracked campus security on a smartphone, but they didn’t have a clear visual of the room where the Roman helmet piece was stored. He stayed in contact with McHardy, who was positioned back inside the parked Škoda Yeti.

  Brynstone told Raja, “I’ve seen you fight. If we encounter security, don’t kill anyone.”

  “I save that for when I’m in a bad mood,” she purred.

  McHardy chuckled in Brynstone’s earpiece. “I cannot wait until Supergirl here gets her first taste of Kryptonite.”

  “Girl comes off as more Catwoman than Supergirl.”

  “Who’s Catwoman?”

  “Forget it.”

  Staying focused, Raja glanced at her smartphone. Faint muscles wrinkled on her forehead. “Lost one guard.” She studied the touch screen. “Near the east entrance.”

  Brynstone turned toward the building, raising night-vision goggles. He had a clear look. She was right. No sign of the guard.

  “What does it matter?” McHardy called, sounding impatient. “You’re the specialist in such matters, Brynstone. Roll into that building and grab the thing, then we’ll be out of here.”

  “John, look,” Raja called.

  He pulled away the binoculars. Their arms nudging, she touched the upper-right quadrant in the four-camera surveillance grid on her screen. Z
ooming in, the camera revealed a body sprawled on the floor. The guard lay facedown in a darkened oval of blood.

  “What happened?” McHardy demanded.

  “Someone already took out the guard,” Brynstone growled. He took another look through the binoculars.

  “John, I’m tracking movement. One, possibly two men,” Raja said. “Proceeding around the east corner.”

  He caught sight of the shadowy figures.

  “Got a visual on the hostiles.”

  “This is bad news. When the other guard finds his buddy, it’s going to bring police. Maybe we should get into the building as fast as possible to grab the relic.”

  “If that’s who I think it is,” Brynstone told her, dropping the binoculars, “they’ve already stolen the helmet piece.”

  Rashmi Raja took off at a full sprint across the grounds. Her French-braided ponytail danced between her shoulders as she ran. Up ahead, she saw a woman and a man making their escape.

  “Take the woman,” Brynstone said, keeping stride for stride with her.

  “You think men scare me?”

  “She’s lethal,” he called. “You won’t be bored.”

  Between buildings now, the two strangers turned. Coming up on them, Brynstone tackled the man. Raja chased after the redheaded woman, who pivoted with a knife in her hand, the blade wet with the guard’s blood. She sliced at the air as Raja ducked. Her fist drove into the redhead’s stomach. The knife tore open Raja’s glove and cut her arm.

  In her other hand, the woman clutched the helmet fragment.

  Raja relaxed her guard when she noticed it. The woman capitalized on the distraction, coming at Raja with the knife. Back on her game, Raja caught the woman’s arm with both hands and slammed it into the building. The helmet piece dropped. So did the knife. But the redhead had plenty of fight left in her, and with her good hand, she punched Raja in the mouth.