The Finish Line r5-5

by Cliff Ryder

  33

  Anthony sat in the helicopter seat as he and Gregor flew north, toward Belgium. His face was set, betraying no hint of emotion as he stared straight ahead, trying to come to grips with what had just happened over the past hour. Not only had he lost the woman again — but that cocky, smiling bastard had killed Liam right in front of him.

  He had worked with Liam for three years — an eternity in the PMC trade. They had functioned like perfectly matched bookends, with the laconic Brit seeming to read his mind at times, always backing his play, yet knowing when he might be pushing the odds a bit too far. They had crossed the globe a dozen times over, fought and schemed in backwater villages on rivers that had barely been named a few decades earlier, and run operations in the largest metropolitan cities in the world. And now he was gone. To Anthony, it felt much as if one of his limbs had been cut off, leaving him crippled. Not that he would show it, but he felt it inside — a hollow space that might not ever go away.

  At least Gregor took out their leader. And I got two more, which leaves only him. After the helicopter went down, Anthony had almost chased the two survivors when he saw them climb out of the aircraft before it went over the side of the building. But the jump to the lower level of the other building was too much to risk. And besides, he had cleanup to do.

  He had carried Liam's body back inside and taken the elevator down one floor, where he found a wheeled cart and a sheet to cover his partner with, along with a white lab coat for himself. In the confusion over the crash, he had managed to locate a janitor's closet, where he had wrapped Liam's body in heavy-duty garbage bags and borrowed a uniform and a janitor's cart. From there it had been a simple matter to walk out a side entrance and make his way back to the SUV, where he had ditched the cart and packed Liam inside, ignoring Gregor's questioning glance. Anthony had instead offered him a cigarette, which the tall Russian had accepted. "Covers up the smell," Anthony said, lighting up himself. He hated smoking, but didn't want to take a chance on an alert cop smelling the distinct odor of burned gunpowder.

  They had slipped out of the parking structure and headed the opposite way from the sirens and cordons and roadblocks. There had been one close incident, when two police cars had blocked the street in preparation for setting up a roadblock. A car coming the other way had screeched to a halt, narrowly missing the squad car, and setting off a furious argument between the driver and the two cops. It had ended with the driver in the back of the squad car, and Anthony and Gregor being waved through with just a cursory examination of their papers, which were in perfect order.

  Anthony had plotted a route out of the city, but had to admit defeat, pulling out his cell phone and hitting the speed dial, then setting the phone on the dashboard.

  "You certainly know how to attract attention to yourself," the voice on the other end said.

  "Sod off. My team just got cut to shit by these fuckin' assholes."

  "I'm aware. By the media furor, one would think the Germans were marching down the Champs-Elysees again. And?…"

  "And the bitch got away again, goddamn it. In fact, she's with the last survivor of the fucking team that tried to rescue her. Do you have anything pertinent to the situation, or are you just going to keep shitting on me?" Anthony didn't care anymore what his handler thought of him.

  "Since the girl is approximately thirty kilometers away from you and traveling farther every second, I'd suggest you shut your fucking gob and listen very carefully."

  Anthony looked at the phone in amazement; his handler never came close to losing his temper. "Go on," he said quietly.

  "We've just concluded a deal that will deliver this woman right into our hands. All we need to do is send someone to collect her at an address in Brussels."

  "Where?"

  His handler supplied an address on the outskirts of the city. "You know that since she's with the other side, they will no doubt be moving reinforcements to keep what they think is theirs."

  "That will not happen," Anthony said.

  "Your declaration doesn't fill me with too much confidence, for while you certainly are adept at killing everyone around her, the woman keeps slipping through your fingers. Go to this airfield on the north side of town." He rattled off another address. "Transportation will be waiting for you to get to Brussels ahead of them. Once there, you will take charge of the woman and bring her back to us. You'll have everything you need to get the job done. And you'd better keep her this time — otherwise don't bother coming back."

  "She'll be on your doorstep this evening. Oh, one more thing — I recovered one of ours."

  "There in the vehicle with you?"

  "Yes — it's Liam."

  There was silence on the other end for a few seconds. "That is a pity. Let the desk person know — they'll handle it."

  "Thank you."

  "I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for him. Liam was one of our best. I'd planned to give him his own team after this one, instead of him constantly cleaning up after your messes."

  "After this one, you won't have to worry about me anymore," Anthony said.

  "Until you're in the grave, you'll always be a worry to me. Get the woman." The connection broke with a soft click.

  That had been thirty minutes earlier, and now they were shooting toward Brussels at more than 150 miles per hour. It was fast enough to get there, find the address and set up a reception for Maggie and that bastard — one that she would never forget, and he would never survive.

  34

  Kate studied the screens floating in virtual reality around her. The largest one was keeping real-time tabs on her single Midnight Team member in France — the only link they had to the girl and the stolen data. Other monitors showed possible routes the runner could take, based on her travel so far and the statistical probability of her destinations. And on each of them were travel lines and estimated intercept times for Room 59 operatives to apprehend them.

  The last screen — to which she paid only peripheral attention — was CNN. The news channel was covering the recent incident in Paris with the most aplomb, although the anchors couldn't help speculating about whether it was some kind of foiled terrorist incident or a crime gone wrong. They hadn't posted any photos of suspects yet, but Kate kept glancing over, expecting to see them as soon as the French police held a conference about it. She knew the next few hours would be critical. At least they got out of the city, even if he hasn't been able to contact us, she told herself.

  That last part was the most worrisome. An operative wasn't supposed to lose his or her phone, period. Kate had spoken to the woman who had answered David's — and who had no doubt ditched the device soon after so it couldn't be traced. She's no dummy, that's for sure. But if she'd been able to take the phone from David, why was she still taking him with her? Kate had rather expected that her operative would have been thrown out along with the phone, but instead his dot was still traveling steadily toward Belgium. Why?

  A chime alerted her to more news. It was Autom8 again, looking as haggard as Kate felt. "Got a line on the car they're in. It's an '08 silver Peugeot 407. Here's the license plate number."

  "Fantastic. Have you been checking the road cameras for a description?"

  A small frown appeared on his face. "I was getting to that. The computers are scanning for it now. We found them about twenty miles out of Paris, and once more after that at fifty miles, then they seem to have pulled off the highway at a place called Valenciennes. Do you want to order an intercept?"

  Kate scanned through her screens, bringing up a map of the area around the town. She continued her conversation while issuing orders to Judy after patching her in. "No, she's with an operative right now, and I'm assuming he is still in control of the situation at the moment. However, a surveillance team could meet them on the road into Brussels, which is her likeliest destination. But I'll assign a team to cover Calais, as well, in case she thinks she's clever — or crazy — enough to double back to England. Give the team the specs
on the car, and update them every time you have a positive ID from a road camera. If Louis has a team that can get there from Paris, fine. Otherwise, scramble whoever is closest to them."

  "Affirmative. Anything else?" Judy asked.

  "Yes. Send Louis a request that he sanitize the bodies of the Midnight Team members killed during the incident. They must be removed from the French law enforcement and any records pertaining to them erased."

  "Don't take this the wrong way, but are you sure? We just got a message suspending all French directorate activities…" Judy began.

  Kate gritted her teeth in annoyance at the bureaucracy that Judy insisted upon interfering with her cleanup operation. "Put it through, and tell them this is straight from the director, and priority one — they'll get it done."

  "I'll send the message, and assign someone to backdoor the French mainframe."

  "Thanks, and keep me updated, of course."

  "Of course," Judy said.

  No sooner had she disconnected than her computer chimed again. "Go for Primary."

  A girl's lilting voice, accent colored with equal parts Middle Eastern and British prep school answered. "This is B2S. I have good news for a change."

  Born2Slyde was the handle of the new caller, and Kate's top hacker. Like the others, she was a freelancer, although a very well paid one on permanent retainer with Room 59. When Kate had taken over as director, she had made it clear she wanted the best of the best for the electronic surveillance and infiltration department, no matter where or who they were. She knew B2S was the third daughter of a prominent oil sheikh — and just about everything else there was to know about her — Room 59's vettors being no slouches on the job themselves. In the end, it all came down to what she could do — everything but make computers stand up and dance, and Kate was pretty sure she was working on that, as well — and if she was committed to the same goals that the other operatives were, which she most certainly was. Kate often thought B2S would do what Room 59 assigned her for free, since it combined the two things she was most passionate about — hacking, and making a difference in the world.

  "That would be a refreshing change of pace. What have you got?"

  "Your mystery woman's name, record, basically everything I could find on her, which wasn't much. I'm posting it to you now."

  Kate bolted upright, her weariness forgotten over this revelation. "B, if you were here, I'd kiss you, and never mind what anyone else would say about it."

  "A simple thank-you will suffice. It's pretty standard stuff, but it was hidden mega deep. Either she's been very good at living off the grid, or she's done a fantastic job of erasing her tracks."

  "Most likely the latter." A locked folder popped up on Kate's monitor, and she unlocked it and spread out the virtual pages. "Margaret Britaine, eh? You're right about not much being here — shuttled around foster homes for much of her childhood…reunited with her brother at age twelve. They've been close ever since. Awarded a full scholarship to MIT when she was sixteen, dropped out three months before graduation, then nothing for the past eleven years — until this."

  "Yup. I can do some snooping around on some sites I know, see if anyone knows anything."

  "Pursue anything that would help us get a lead on what she's been up to in the last decade — besides getting people killed all around her. I'm going to take a close look at what you found here and see if anything pops up. Great work, B."

  "As always. I'll text you if I get a line on anything solid."

  "Sounds good. Primary out." Kate took a minute to get up and stretch her cramped muscles, working out the kinks and tension from the past several hours in the chair. Walking to the minifridge, she removed a diet ginger ale from inside, glanced longingly at the tiny bottle of Jack Daniel's on the door and shook her head, popping the soda open and pouring it into a glass before returning to her chair and sitting back down and slipping her VR glasses back on.

  "All right, Ms. Britaine, let's see who you really are."

  35

  Maggie walked out of what passed for a small strip mall in rural France, a row of shops designed to ensnare tourists that also carried enough items to serve her purposes, as well. Quick visits to a clothing store, then a grocery with a bathroom allowed her to alter her appearance yet again, leaving the old clothes in the trash and changing into comfortable jeans, a black blouse and tennis shoes. Pulling her hair back from her face, she secured it with a spiraled blue headband with a small butterfly on it. Using a bit of foundation to mask the dark circles under her eyes, she examined herself in the mirror.

  Not bad. I could pass as a young mother on vacation, or a rich girl slumming across France with my boyfriend — maybe. She knew she had a problem, though. What was she to do with David? She certainly couldn't take him to Brussels. Leaving him here was good enough. He could get the medical attention he no doubt needed, and those other guys had to be well off their trail by now; otherwise they would have tried something already while she was stopped. Yeah, best to break this off sooner rather than later, before he tries to figure out a way to mess up my next rendezvous.

  Making sure the clothes were hidden deep in the covered wastebasket, Maggie shouldered her laptop and walked out of the bathroom. Leaving the store, she slipped on a large pair of sunglasses that covered her eyes and then some as she headed for the car.

  She caught David staring as she got in. "Yes?"

  "Nothing, just — you clean up well."

  She tossed him the extralarge light gray pullover sweatshirt, with the word Provence embroidered across the front in large blue-and-plaid letters, that she had purchased in the clothing store.

  "This is certainly inconspicuous," he said.

  "It fits with our new disguise of a tourist couple driving across France. I couldn't find a zip-up, sorry." Another white lie, but Maggie had told so many in the past hour, she was sure another wouldn't matter.

  He gave her an odd look. "Couple, eh? I think you got the better wardrobe."

  "But of course." She watched as he tried to maneuver into the garment in the cramped space. "Why don't you just step outside and slip it on? I won't go anywhere, I promise."

  He nodded. Opening the door, he levered himself out with difficulty, holding the sweatshirt with his good arm. Leaving the door ajar, he began working his way into the sweatshirt.

  As soon as his face disappeared into the shirt, Maggie shifted the car into gear and pulled away, careful not to hit him. Fifty feet away, she stopped, reached over and pulled the passenger's door closed, then sped away, trying not to look into the rearview mirror but unable to help herself. She saw David standing there in the parking lot, staring after her.

  It's for his own good, she told herself as she found the on-ramp to the highway and took it, making sure she was headed to Brussels.

  Dividing her attention between her mirrors and the speedometer, Maggie accelerated to seventy miles per hour and drove, enjoying the fact that she wasn't under anyone's thumb for the moment. It was tempting to just keep driving, to bypass Brussels and head into Germany, or Switzerland, or anywhere else, to get away from all of this violence and killing. With a weary sigh, she banished the daydream and concentrated on the task ahead of her. There was still a way to go, and there was also the matter of payment. Aragorn wasn't going to be thrilled that she couldn't give him his cut right away. But she could lead him on with a promise of riches to come once she had delivered her package. It might mean a slight renegotiation again, but for the amount she planned to make those bastards at Mercury pay, she could cut the hacker in and still have plenty left over for a long, long vacation.

  The miles rolled by under the Peugeot's humming wheels, and before Maggie knew it she was nearing Brussels. Pulling off at a rest stop on the side of the road, she fired up her laptop again, and called Aragorn.

  "Hello, lass. Where are you?"

  "I'm about ten minutes from the city, and I wanted the directions sooner rather than later, so I can get an idea of where I'm going.
"

  "No problem. I'm sending them right now." A moment later, a set of directions flashed on her computer. "Follow those, and we should see you in about thirty minutes."

  "Thanks, Aragorn — I won't forget this. See you soon."

  "I'll be waiting for you."

  Maggie closed her laptop and pulled onto the road again, leaning forward in the leather seat in her eagerness to be among friends again, and out of reach of her pursuers once and for all.

  36

  David watched the silver car disappear into the distance, shaking his head. I should have known not to trust her, he thought. But even more, he was disappointed that he hadn't convinced her that he really could protect her, that the men after her at the hospital would keep trying until they had caught her once and for all.

  With a sigh, he walked into the nearest store and asked, in halting French and flashing a twenty-Euro note, if he could use their phone.

  "This is Primary, the lock word is 'alpine.'"

  "This is M-Two, the key word is 'evergreen.'" It was a risk using an unsecured line like this, but David had to report what had happened and get reinforcements after Maggie while there was still time. While he could have stolen a car and continued the chase, he was in no shape to do that, or face an unknown number of potential hostiles alone.

  "One moment."

  David waited for the transfer. If he had given a different word, it would have meant he was under duress, either captured or that he just couldn't talk freely. If a word was given that didn't match any of the codes for the mission, the connection would be broken, and an immediate trace would be put out to discover where the call was placed from and who had done it.