by Brian Drake
Fairmont nodded and took out his Samsung smart phone. He scrolled through the photos McCormick had previously sent. The shots showed Stiletto and Ali at lunch, the funeral home, other places. Fairmont drew fingers across the screen to enlarge the best photo of Scott and handed the phone to Hamin.
The Iranian agent examined the picture with a growing frown. “I’ve seen this man up close.”
“Who is he?”
Hamin returned the phone. “I do not know his name, but he is the reason I had to come here for my items. A similar arrangement I made in Switzerland was interrupted by this man and several associates, all of whom work for U.S. spy agencies.”
“You mean he’s C.I.A. or Homeland Security?” Fairmont said.
Hamin shrugged. “Or another one.”
Fairmont shifted in his seat, then bounced to his feet and started pacing. “What have we gotten into?”
Rollins remained steady. “Relax, Max.”
“How? What we found out just now is that Ali has the kind of connections that can shut us down! If we kill him, they send more. When he was just another speed bump it was no problem. Now it’s a huge problem!”
“On top of your other issues,” Rollins said.
“Don’t remind me. I needed this deal. Badly.”
“Here’s the way I see it,” Rollins said. He turned to face Hamin. “We have the ability to produce the items you require. What we’re trying to get is the means to move them around the world with minimum risk. We thought the Lewis firm was the best choice considering Max’s earlier connection. If that’s all we need, there are plenty of other companies we can approach.”
Hamin did not reply.
“All it means is a loss of time,” Rollins continued, “but we can make that up once we’re squared away.”
Hamin turned to Fairmont, who leaned with both hands on the back of his couch.
“We still have the FairSoft difficulties,” Hamin said.
“My new product goes to the SalesForce show soon,” Fairmont said. “It’s testing very well. It might buy us more time.”
“We have a lot of loose ends,” Hamin said, looking at Rollins.
“Then we need to sew them up,” Rollins said. “Tonight.”
Stiletto woke up in the back of a van loaded with computer monitors. He wiped his eyes. The screens showed the Fairmont estate. Somebody sat in front of the monitors, but that wasn’t the person Stiletto focused on.
Toby O’Brien sat beside him.
Stiletto said, “I think you have some explaining to do, pal.”
“No kidding,” the F.B.I. man said. “Things got a little crazy just now.”
“Why did you give me Fairmont’s address only to have your guys sack me? Those stun guns hurt.”
“You just crossed over into an active investigation,” O’Brien said. “Without knowing it, of course. Heck, I didn’t know it.”
“I thought you had no business with Fairmont.”
“We don’t,” said O’Brien. “We have business with one of the guys who showed up in the car. Does the name Peter J. Rollins ring a bell?”
“No.” Stiletto sat up against the van wall. His side hurt a little. He winced.
“Sorry about the Tazer,” said the man in front of the monitors.
Stiletto ignored him. “Go on, Toby.”
“Peter Rollins is an international go-between. He puts like-minded people together for deals who may not know of each other or have no way of getting in touch. We know he’s been working with a man named Shahram Hamin for--”
Stiletto held up a hand. “I know. Now you’ve stepped on one of my investigations.”
“Tell me.”
Stiletto filled him in on as much as he could about Switzerland without saying too much.
O’Brien said, “So Hamin needed a new connection for his nuke triggers. He found Rollins, Rollins found Fairmont, and here we are.”
“You stopped me from going in there because now you can kill two birds with one stone,” Stiletto said.
“I suppose. We haven’t thought that far ahead yet. I just needed you out of there.”
Stiletto told him about the nuclear triggers he found in Pito’s briefcase.
“Funny you mention that. Pito’s body was found about an hour ago,” O’Brien said. “Shot in the face. He’s quite dead. But the killer didn’t finish the job. A homeless person saw the whole thing and noted the license plate on the car the killer got back into. Rollins’ car.”
“There were two men in that car.”
“Maybe Hamin was with him.”
“Why haven’t you moved on Rollins before now?” Stiletto said.
“We don’t know how they’re getting the triggers. And now Fairmont’s in the mix too. The only lead we have that may or may not even be connected is a missing scientist.”
“Who?”
“A woman named Tina Avila went missing a few weeks ago along with her son. She could be helping them, under duress or otherwise.”
“Rollins doesn’t have her?”
“We’ve followed him to a lot of places but none that contain a potential hostage. His place isn’t rigged with the kind of security needed to keep one, either.”
“There were other things in Pito’s briefcase,” Stiletto said. “Maybe we can find a clue there.”
“Where’s the case?”
“Back at my hotel.”
“Then that’s where we go.”
Stiletto took a deep breath. He winced again. “I suppose I have to report to my boss.”
“And vice versa. Maybe they’ll let us pool resources.”
“Where’s my phone?”
O’Brien handed Stiletto his cell from a pile of his personal items. O’Brien handed back his gun, knife, lock picks and pen flash. Stiletto stowed the items and dialed Ali but she didn’t answer.
Chapter Ten
Ali watched television with very little comprehension. It was getting close to midnight and she had heard nothing from Scott. Just like the old days. Hours or days or sometimes a month with no communication from him. Because of a mission. Her nerves couldn’t take it, especially now.
The feelings honestly surprised her, but then she decided that nothing less could have occurred. Scott was a part of her; part of her history. When their relationship had thrived, it had thrived indeed. One can move on, but never erase history. Their little encounter on the couch upon which she sat might have simply been a release of tension, nothing more. She couldn’t keep her thoughts straight and they bounced around her head like pin balls.
She had not ignored his departing piece of advice. Not only did her Glock-17 automatic and a spare magazine sit on the coffee table, but she had put on Levis and a black T-shirt and wore her running shoes. She’d sleep in the outfit if she had to. Just in case. Car keys, driver’s license, and a money clip were in the pockets of the jeans.
She wasn’t an expert shot or a combat vet, but everybody who joined the C.I.A. had to visit The Farm and learn the basics. She knew how to shoot at a respectable level. But it was all theory shored up with a little practice a dozen years ago with very little since. How she’d fare under pressure was another story; she’d never fired at anything other than paper targets, or moving objects that didn’t fire back. And then something crashed into the door. A heavy thud. Wood cracked. She snapped out of her trance, snatching the gun as she moved for the cover of her corner dining table.
The door frame had bent inward, the wood splintering. Another thud and the whole door crashed open, three men framed in the doorway as they entered. One tossed aside a battering ram, McCormick in the lead, toting an ugly black Uzi.
She pointed the Glock at him and fired three times. Each shot missed as he dashed right and shoulder-rolled onto the carpet. The second man broke left for the kitchen. She fired once at him and missed. The third man let off some covering fire as he entered the room. He didn’t move fast enough. Ali’s next two rounds impacted with a whack-splat that sent a spray of blood
and tissue into the hallway behind him. His body fell in the doorway.
Smoke trickled from the muzzle of her pistol. Seventeen rounds in the mag to start but how many had she fired? Her spare mag still sat on the coffee table and she might as well have been one hundred miles away.
The shooter in the kitchen fired; she shot back, then swung her sights to McCormick, who jumped up and ran for her bedroom. Her two shots shredded the doorway as his body dived through.
The kitchen gunner rose and she fired once to keep him down. She had to get her spare ammo. She fired once at the kitchen and once at the bedroom wall and left the dining table, rushing on hands and knees to the coffee table. McCormick leaned out of the bedroom. The flash from the Uzi filled the room. Ali dropped flat on the carpet between the two tables. The large windows behind her shattered and huge pieces of glass flew inside with the sudden rush of wind. She covered her neck. Pieces landed on her and around. She raised her gun and fired four rapid shots. No idea where they landed, but McCormick moved back.
She lunged forward, reaching for the spare magazine. The kitchen gunner blasted the table in half, the mag falling to the floor. She fired once, twice--the Glock locked open, empty. She scrambled into the space between the couch and wrecked table as the kitchen shooter rose again. She flung a loose table leg at him and he ducked, the leg crashing into the stove. She ejected the empty magazine, grabbed the spare and reloaded, closing the action as she rose to full height. The gunman in the kitchen swung his gun on her for the last time. Her single shot sprouted for him a third eye that grew between the other two, blood and bone fragments blasting out the back of his head to splatter the white kitchen tile.
McCormick stepped out again, the Uzi at his hip. As Ali leaped onto the couch and stepped onto the back, launching herself into the air, his burst turned the couch into rubbish, shredding the cushions. Stuffing flew everywhere as Ali landed, executing a text-book tuck-and-roll across the carpet.
She stopped at the dead body in the doorway. Firing back at McCormick, she forced him to hide long enough to grab the dead man’s Uzi. Gripping the submachine gun in both hands, she sprayed the bedroom doorway and the adjacent wall. The high-velocity slugs ripped through as if the wall were paper. McCormick didn’t scream. But something had to have hit him. Had to.
The Uzi clicked empty. She dropped it and grabbed the dead man’s pistol and spare ammo pouch. Then she ran, crashing through the stairwell door, pounding down the staircase as fast as she could with the beating pulse in her head the only thing she could hear.
She wasn’t supposed to have a gun!
As McCormick dove through the bedroom doorway, he heard Ali’s second or third salvo hit behind him. She wasn’t very good with the gun, for sure, but she had one, and his simple snatch-and-grab had just gone ka-blooey. He’d never had any second thoughts about this job until now. She wasn’t any other sucker. She had Mr. Hero, and her own gun. Max had said he knew the Lewis family well. Apparently, not as well as he thought.
And by the time she grabbed the other Uzi, he knew he was over his head. She shouldn’t have known how to use that. He dived behind her bed as the burst sliced through the wall. She was smart enough to know she might hit him that way. He was smart enough to figure she’d try.
When the Uzi went silent, he cautiously stepped through the doorway. Gone. Stuffing from the couch still hung in the air.
With his two guys dead, he wasn’t going back to Max empty-handed. His orders had been explicit. Take her alive to lure Mr. Hero into a trap and kill them both.
As McCormick reloaded and ran after her, he grabbed his phone and called for back-up. He didn’t tell them the skinny bitch had just made a fool out of him. She was going to pay for that.
Ali stopped, breathless, before the door to the lobby. She couldn’t go charging through with two semi-auto pistols. She jammed the guns into her waistband and covered them with her T-shirt.
She pushed through the lobby door, crossing the marble tile to the garage door opposite. The desk where the security guard normally sat was empty. Sirens wailed in the distance.
She didn’t want to take a chance with the cops. If Inspector Clover was in league with Fairmont, other cops would be too.
She entered the quiet garage and dug for her keys. Racing to her BMW, she tossed the guns on the passenger seat and dropped behind the wheel. Sweat dripped into her eyes; she wiped it away, using her other hand to wipe her face. Her lungs burned from the rush down the stairs. But so far, she was still alive.
The engine roared to life and the tires squealed in reverse. She powered forward, following a curve to the exit, increasing speed as the BMW drew closer to the opening.
Another car bumped the curb as it swung into the garage, and when it jerked to a stop with two men piling out, Ali slammed the brakes. Both men held automatic weapons. She dived for the floor as they opened up on the car, the BMW rocking with hits. The windshield sprouted a dozen spider-cracks, but did not break.
Ali pushed open the passenger door, rolled out with a pistol in either hand. She returned fire, the guns kicking back, and the shots found their marks. The shooters twitched and fell, their guns clattering beside them.
The Glock was empty again. She left it there and reloaded the stolen gun, a Beretta.
She ran out into the dark street. The cool air felt good on her sweaty skin. To her left was the front of the building; behind her, a pathway to the Embarcadero with plenty of alleys and doorways offering a place to hide. The sirens grew louder and police cars swarmed the front. She turned to run the other way. Another cop car careened around the corner ahead. The bright headlamps shined on her and the gun she clutched. The police car screeched to a halt. Two officers jumped out with drawn guns.
“Drop it! Get on the ground!”
Ali didn’t argue. She tossed away the pistol and stepped away with her hands up.
“On the ground!”
She dropped to her knees first and then stretched flat.
One of the cops approached, kicked away the Beretta, and holstered his weapon. Removing his handcuffs, he grabbed Ali’s left wrist and. . .
“Watch it, Harry!”
The cop who remained by the car shouted the warning way too late.
McCormick emerged from the exit and raised the Uzi. His first burst cut down the cop who had spoken. The officer by Ali went for his gun only to have the next burst of nine-millimeter high-velocity stingers cut through his neck and head.
Ali screamed, rising to grab the Beretta. She heard other yells behind her, but more chatter from the Uzi drowned them out. She dived for the gun, wrapped her fingers around the plastic grips, and started to turn. The image of her dead father flashed in her mind as she raised the gun on McCormick.
The long trigger pull on the Beretta kept her from getting off a fast shot and McCormick was on her. He lashed out with a kick that sent the gun flying from her fingers. Pain flashed through her hand.
She started to scream again but McCormick swung the Uzi’s metal butt-stock against her head and turned out the lights.
Stiletto tried Ali’s phone again and cursed when she didn’t pick up.
It was his fourth call since leaving Fairmont’s place.
O’Brien finally turned onto the Embarcadero. The drive was taking too long as far as Scott was concerned, but O’Brien had the speedometer hovering just over the limit, so it wasn’t a case of driving slow.
“We’re almost there,” O’Brien said.
Ali felt cold water on her face.
She awakened very slowly feeling more pain then she had ever experienced. The left side of her face throbbed. She rolled over and retched. The floor was also cold and made of white tile. The walls were white as well and the fluorescent lights above only accentuated the flat color.
“How badly are you hurt?”
The voice came from the person holding the cold washcloth. A woman. Long dark hair, olive-skin, dark eyes.
“They brought you here a few minu
tes ago,” the woman said.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Tina Avila. They’ve kept me here for weeks. Maybe longer. They have my son, too.”
O’Brien rolled up on the scene in front of Ali’s building. Cops, several ambulances, chaos. A lot of flashing cherry lights.
A uniformed patrolman waved them on. O’Brien steered away and took the next right.
“Go back and show them your badge,” Stiletto said. “We need to get in there.”
“And get us into a territory dispute with the supervising officer? Not worth it. We’ll never get through that perimeter.”
“Toby--”
“Scott, now’s the time to call headquarters. Both of us. Ali will have to go it alone until we can get to her.”
Stiletto wanted to argue further, but Toby was right. He had to update the General.
Chapter Eleven
Ali said: “Where are we?”
“I’m not sure,” the other woman said. “Sometimes I hear loud music above the ceiling.”
Ali rose to her hands and knees, then braced herself on a cluttered table to get to her feet. The items on the table gave her pause. Glass tubes. Filaments. Electronic circuits.
“Nuclear triggers,” Ali said.
“How do you know?” Tina Avila said, stopping beside Ali.
“I’ve seen your work already. You a physicist?”
“Yes. So who are you?”
Ali gave Tina a condensed version of events.
Tina grabbed Ali’s arms tight. “Your friends have to stop! The Iranians have my son.”
Ali shoved her away. “Unless you have a phone I can’t very well warn them.”
Tina Avila put a hand to her mouth and backed away.
“How many krytrons are you making? Tell me, Tina. How many?”
