Alexis led the way as Kane, Dawson and Niner followed, their footfalls heavy through the corridors as they raced for the exit and their van. There was no way to know what was going on except that most likely one of their trussed up “victims” had been discovered, or one had escaped and set off the alarm. Whatever the cause, it didn’t matter.
They needed to get out of here before reinforcements arrived.
“Nobody dies,” said Kane as they reached the entrance that had led them into the building. “These are our allies, we’re the aggressors here. Non-lethal force only.”
Kane looked out the window and saw several of the guards, their weapons raised, aiming in various directions, apparently confused as to what to do.
“Who’s going to tell them?” asked Niner as he double-checked his gear.
Alexis turned to Niner.
“Can you ‘geek up’ as you Americans might say?”
Niner’s eyebrows shot up as his head dipped.
“Huh?”
“You’re Asian. You look intellectual. Our stereotype would have you working late and likely to work somewhere like this.”
Niner glanced at Dawson with a grin indicating he wasn’t offended.
“Political correctness hasn’t reached France yet, I see.”
“What did you have in mind?” asked Dawson.
“The two of us go out there pretending we’re employees fleeing you, then take them out.”
Now Kane’s eyebrows shot up.
“Two against four?”
“I’ll take the three on the left if you think it necessary,” said Alexis with a smile. “It’s our only chance of getting out of here before reinforcements arrive.”
“Expected response time?”
“Less than ten minutes.”
Dawson nodded in agreement.
“Go ahead, Beeker.”
Niner was already stripping out of his gear, leaving himself wearing black military issue boots, black pants that could be mistaken for dress pants in the dark, and a black t-shirt. He tucked his and Kane’s Tasers in his pants, behind his back, then looked at Dawson.
“Don’t you dare have my nickname changed to Beeker. I’ll kill you where you stand.”
Kane and Dawson laughed as Alexis inspected him.
“Too bad we don’t have a pair of glasses for you,” she said, then grabbed the door, opening it to the outside. She rushed through the door, Niner following, Alexis crying out for help in French, Niner smartly staying mute, simply flailing his arms and looking behind him as if fearing pursuit.
Dawson grabbed Niner’s gear, Kane picking up Alexis’, as they watched through the doors. The four guards immediately trained their weapons on the two “clerks”, soon lowering them as she waved her ID in the air, pointing at the door. As they approached two Tasers fired, taking two of the men out of the action, Niner kicking his remaining opponent’s weapon aside then incapacitating him with a quick blow to the nose. Alexis hoofed hers in the balls then kneed the man in the head as he doubled forward.
It was over in seconds, Kane and Dawson racing out the door toward the writhing group, quickly zip tying their hands and feet. Sirens wailed to the west and they all spun to watch two police vehicles rush around the corner, screeching to a halt at the front gate, more sirens in the distance.
Shit!
Four miles from Charles de Gaulle National Intelligence Archive, Longjumeau, France
Alex West lay on the pavement, writhing in agony, his left hand grabbing his hip as Zorkin tried to bend over and help him, and Adelle stood at the edge of the street waiting for a passerby to help. The roar of engines and shifting gears had them all looking down the road at a small convoy of six police vehicles approaching quickly.
Adelle stepped out onto the road, waving at the convoy, the lead vehicle swerving to avoid her, the others following suit. West looked up in pain at the first vehicle, the passenger on a radio, looking at him. As the vehicles raced by, Adelle yelling for help in French, Zorkin glaring at the bastards for ignoring their plight, West continued to cry out in pain.
The rear vehicle hammered on its brakes, the two men in the front of the transport vehicle jumping out.
“What’s wrong here?” asked the passenger as he approached West.
“He slipped. I think he broke his hip,” said Adelle as the two officers approached. West moaned again, this one louder than any before, and turned his back to them.
“He needs an ambulance,” said the young driver. “I’ll call you one.”
“How about we just take your vehicle,” said Zorkin, matter-of-factly, as West rolled back toward the men, his Glock pointed directly at them, Zorkin and Adelle already with their weapons out.
“Hey, what’s going on here? I thought he was injured?” exclaimed the driver.
“They’re robbing us, you moron,” said the older officer as West scrambled to his feet, a little less efficiently than he might have hoped.
“What’s in the back?” asked Adelle.
The older officer shook his head.
“Nothing, we were supposed to pick up some prisoners and transport them.”
West leaned into the cabin of the truck and saw an access panel to the rear. He slid it aside, revealing an empty transport area.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” said Adelle with a smile. “First, you’re going to strip.”
“What?”
“Strip. Down to your briefs. All of you.”
West’s eyebrows popped.
“Huh?”
“All of you. Take off your clothes. You two”—she motioned to West and Zorkin—“put on their uniforms.”
Nobody moved.
“Quickly!”
All four men jumped slightly at her bark then began stripping. West and Zorkin eyed each other, Zorkin apparently none-too-thrilled with the idea of exposing himself either. West had tried to keep in shape, but gravity inevitably had taken its toll, and Zorkin looked like he might have an extra little padding on him since their last encounter.
West sighed and kicked off his shoes, dropping his pants and stepping out of them as he unbuttoned his shirt, he and Zorkin huddled as close to the truck as possible. Fortunately traffic was almost non-existent at this time of night on this road, so there was no one to question what the hell was going on. Adelle grabbed the clothes of the driver who fortunately seemed to match West’s body type, and handed them to him. She ran a finger down his chest to his stomach, a little too soft for his liking.
“You kept yourself in shape,” she smiled. “That’s good.”
He felt himself blush as he took the clothes and hurriedly put them on. Adelle handed the passenger’s uniform to Zorkin, who pulled the shirt on.
“Are you kidding me?” he asked. West turned as he finished with the last button on his perfectly fitting shirt and laughed. Zorkin had the much shorter man’s shirt on, the sleeves half way to his elbows, the first button of his shirt screaming for relief.
“No choice,” smiled Adelle. “We have to work with what we’ve got.”
West climbed into the provided pants then put his shoes back on, not willing to put the man’s boots on in case he had to do some running, and ill fitted shoes wouldn’t do.
“How do I look?” he asked, Adelle turning to inspect him.
“Like a brave officer ready to make the streets safe,” she said, patting his cheek. She motioned at the two prisoners. “Now secure them in the back.”
West zip tied their wrists and ankles with ties from their own utility belts, gagged them with handkerchiefs, then pushed them into the back. Adelle had her phone out, sending a message as Zorkin finally finished putting on his uniform.
“This is ridiculous,” he complained once again.
West looked over and snorted.
Zorkin’s pants were four inches too short and each button was like the span of a suspension bridge between the two sides, his stomach and chest exposed in varying degrees all the way up.
Adelle shoved her cellphone in her pocket then opened the door to the cab, looking inside. She reemerged with a jacket and tossed it at Zorkin.
“Try this.”
Zorkin pulled it on and smiled, it obviously belonging to the driver. He zipped up the near perfect fit, and looked down at himself.
“Now as long as I don’t need to get out, we’ll be okay.”
Adelle climbed into the back of the truck.
“Let’s hurry. You know how to get there?”
“Yes.”
“Good, then here’s the plan.”
Provost Drive, Newburgh, New York
Agent Sherrie White’s heart pounded as she watched from the sidelines, CIA strictly observing on this take down. Throughout the country every law enforcement officer had been mobilized, including the National Guard, and military forces across the world were on the highest alert they had been since 9/11.
To think this is already far worse!
She shuddered at the thought. The detonation in Memphis had been devastating. Casualty reports were starting to pour in, hundreds believed vaporized, the train yard completely obliterated. Memphis was an important rail transportation hub, even more so today than it had been during the Cold War, and its loss would have major economic ramifications. The last briefing she had received before being assigned to this op indicated a yield of under a kiloton, with a radiation cloud that had quickly dissipated. Rescue efforts were already well underway, along with aerial dispersal of anti-radiation foam from water bombers and helicopters.
It was a rapid reaction only made possible by the fact the entire country had been put on alert earlier, the reason unbeknownst to the public.
But the quick response, and equally rapid address to the nation by the President had done little to calm the panic now spreading across the country. Hoarding had already begun with grocery stores and pharmacies stripped bare within hours of the terrorist broadcast. Looting and rioting had been reported in some of the major cities, residents stocking up on essentials like flat panel televisions and iPads.
It disgusted her.
Looters should be shot on sight, no questions asked.
It was one thing to steal supplies, that was understandable—you were trying to save yourself and your family. It was another to take advantage of the situation and try to upgrade your miserable existence.
Sherrie’s eyes flicked between the CNN broadcast on one monitor, and the feeds from the head-mounted cameras of the tactical team moving in on the house identified by her boyfriend as the only computer in the country to have opened the transmitted file.
He’s a genius!
She loved him. Of that there was no doubt. Why, she wasn’t exactly sure. He wasn’t her type, at least not what she had thought was her type. But when she had been assigned to test him, to tempt him sexually to see if he would break and reveal his secrets, he had seemed so sweet that she actually found herself questioning her assignment and even asked to be taken off it.
She had been refused.
Sometimes Morrison is an asshole!
He was right, though. She couldn’t exactly bail in the middle of her assignment because she had become sweet on the target. She had been thrilled when Chris had passed the test and refused her advances, despite using all of her feminine wiles.
And thanks to Kane, who had pushed the two of them together at the end, they were now a happy couple. It was a shotgun “wedding”, her moving in almost right away since her apartment wasn’t really hers—it had been part of the assignment. Chris hadn’t minded, not in the least, and she had tried to make the transition for him from bachelor to committed relationship as easy as possible.
She felt they had the best of both worlds with her being a spy. Their time apart simply made their time together that much more intense. When Morrison had assigned her this mission as observer, she had jumped at the opportunity to get back out in the field, but all the moments where there was nothing to do but think, like these right now, she worried about her beloved Chris.
Langley is absolutely a prime target.
“They’re making entry now,” said one of the FBI agents inside the mobile command center parked around the corner from the house. She watched as one of the cameras showed the door being forced open with a battering ram, other views showing agents rushing into the front hallway as the same happened at the back. Local police cars and several FBI SUVs roared from their positions around the corners near the house, their squealing tires on the other side of the command post walls music to her ears causing her to twitch in her chair, every fiber of her being wishing she were out there, gun in hand, racing to apprehend the bastard responsible for so much horror.
But it wasn’t to be, she merely an observer.
“We’ve got him!” came a voice over the comm as another voice announced the all clear. The command post roared to life, the massive vehicle moving forward then turning on to the suspect’s street, coming to a halt moments later. The rear doors were thrown open and she followed several agents out, the evening sun low on the horizon. Her trained eye scanned the neighborhood, dozens of curtains held aside as scared and curious families watched the takedown. Others, more brave, or more stupid, stood on their porches watching.
Sherrie approached the suspect’s house, the tactical team mostly outside now, securing the area as the agents moved inside to begin searching for useful intel. Down the street one set of neighbors had apparently had enough, their RV pulling away from the curb, leaving the neighborhood in its wake.
As she stepped inside she saw a man in handcuffs sitting uncomfortably in the corner of his wedge shaped couch looking scared, and if she didn’t know better, entirely innocent.
There’s no way this is the guy.
Tears streaked the man’s face, he was beet red and looked on the verge of a panic attack. He was a massive man, probably approaching four hundred pounds, sporting an unkempt beard and head of knotted hair, some of it tied haphazardly in a ponytail. His light grey track pants were threadbare in several inappropriate locations, and his white C-3PO and R2-D2 t-shirt, with “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for” emblazoned underneath, was stained with some sort of pasta sauce in several places, probably aged to different time periods since his last load of laundry was done by his mother.
“What was he doing when you found him?” Sherrie asked the agent-in-charge, Tosh Wahlberg.
“Playing video games in his bedroom.”
“Any other computers?”
“A few. Looks like a computer geek of some kind.”
Sherrie turned to the man.
“What’s your name?”
“Joe. Joe Cross.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Cross?”
“I work at Burger Prince,” he said, his eyes jumping from person to person, the sounds of his home being torn apart apparently disturbing.
“Doing what?” asked Special Agent-in-Charge Wahlberg.
“I dunno. Whatever Kerry tells me to do. That bitch has a hate on for me. All last week I was on toilet duty. That’s just not fair! Have you seen some of the fat asses that come into our place? Can you imagine the mess some of those make? It’s like they spread their cheeks so wide their asshole is on the seat and they shit right on it. It’s goddamned disgusting! You should be arresting them.”
“The ‘fat asses’?” asked Sherrie, eying his massive girth and a prime example of a pot calling the kettle black.
“Damned right. And Kerry. Did I say that bitch has a hate on for me?”
He looked around at all the activity, appearing to regain some of his composure.
“Man, my friends aren’t going to believe this shit.”
“It’s not the right computer!” yelled someone from upstairs.
“What?”
Wahlberg ran up the stairs toward the voice, leaving Sherrie alone with the suspect who continued to chatter about what was no doubt an online community of friends, Cross not striking her as the outgoing type.
She felt a pang in her heart as she wondered if this could have been Chris if he hadn’t have joined the CIA and instead wasted his intellect on gaming and burger flipping.
Not my babe!
She pulled out her Blackberry, unlocked it and held in the C key.
Dialing Chris (Office).
It rang once and was forwarded, ringing twice more before answered.
“Hello?”
Her caller ID was blocked, leaving her babe in the dark as to who called his cellphone, a number she knew he gave to almost no one. In fact, she couldn’t remember anyone other than Kane calling it, or work. His parents always called the apartment, and he had no other friends.
“Hi hon, it’s me.”
“Hi!” came the cheery reply, then a lowered voice, as if he were surrounded by others. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but I think something’s wrong here. Could you have been wrong?”
“I don’t think so, why?”
“This guy doesn’t fit the profile, and I just heard somebody yell that it was the wrong computer.”
There was a pause, then a quiet reply.
“Does he have wi-fi?”
Sherrie looked at Cross.
“Do you have wi-fi?”
Cross nodded.
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Is it secure?” she asked, knowing exactly where Chris was going with this.
“Nah. My mom could never remember the password and I got sick of logging her in, so I just made it public. It’s not like I’ve got anything to hide.”
“You live with your mother?”
“Yeah, what’s it to you?” Cross wagged a finger at her and the other agents. “And you guys better have this house put back together before she gets back from her friend’s house or she’ll kick your asses.”
Sherrie stifled a smile at the image as she ran up the stairs, the phone still pressed to her head.
“It’s not secure,” she told Chris, then told the room as she burst into the bedroom. “He’s got an unsecured wi-fi network.” She repositioned the phone. “Chris, what’s the range on that?”
Cold Warriors (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #3) Page 19
