“The men I entertain made it a possibility,” she said. “And where I come from—sadly, it is commonplace.”
The four ran back down the Filbert Steps as fast as their legs would allow. Ana was still barefoot. Jack took the gun from Sammy and brought up the rear.
“But how did you find it?” Sol asked. He was obviously impressed by the girl’s street smarts.
“I noticed it when I looked at the place,” she said. “There was a wooden panel on the back wall of the hall closet. Servants’ stairs! Behind the panel were long, narrow, steps. Once I saw it, I had to live there.”
Sadly, she couldn’t live there any longer. And there were still nearly four hundred steep, wooden stairs between her and escape. Thankfully the houses that nestled alongside the stairs were all but enclosed by thick foliage, so it was unlikely that anyone would see or hear them.
While he tried to anticipate what the killers would do next, Jack marveled at his half brother’s new friend. He was especially eager to understand how her gold-framed corneas could possibly withstand a flash grenade. There was more to this gal than Sammy knew. But there was no time for that now. He knew from the hit squad’s methods that they were on an organized mission. He also knew that every other resident of the apartment building were stabbing 911 buttons within seconds of the flash bomb’s detonation. They should be hearing sirens in the distance any second.
“Jack, about this ‘Firebird’ thing,” his half brother said, half-winded.
“I’m listening.”
“There was a Russian plane crash,” Sammy said. “A hacker was onboard. I saw it online. He reported that someone skyjacked and downed the plane before starting to kill everyone who tried to escape. His last message was something about a raft and a bazooka!”
Jack tried to figure out why an American general would be involved with a downed Russian aircraft. Morton was the real deal: en route, Jack had used his illegal password to access U.S. military records and read the man’s dossier. He lived in San Mateo, where many of the state’s wealthiest families resided. Like many good officers who had been stationed at the Presidio, he had fallen in love with the city and decided to stay. He had a spotless record with no mention of black ops. Which made sense: they wouldn’t be black ops if they were mentioned.
Yet there was something sloppy, makeshift about the way the hit on Anastasia had played out. But then the Filbert Steps were jolting his brain and he had a higher priority: find safety first.
“All right,” he announced, still going down the steps and through gardens full of purple, pink, and red rhododendrons as fast as possible. “There’s no way this hit squad doesn’t come after us again. Sol, how long do you think we have?”
“Depends,” Sol replied, older yet less out-of-breath than the others. He probably had the time and vanity to work out. “Are they scared of their boss? They got any self-respect? They got instincts for self-preservation? Are those instincts good? I’ve had guys who came back from a contract, look me straight in the eye, and tell me they failed. I’ve had guys who would drive off a bridge rather than admit they screwed up.”
“Which do you think these guys are?” Jack asked.
“A third kind,” Sol said. “The kind whose horse gets tired so they light a fire under his belly to get him back on his feet. They’ll keep coming. They gotta stop us for what she heard.” He pointed ahead at Ana.
“Right,” Jack nodded.
“Hey, I got plenty of muscle, Jack,” Sol went on. “I can have people on this with a phone call.”
“Thanks. Keep ’em in the batter’s box.”
Jack was concerned about a firefight; he had been in several while he was with the 2nd Marine Division in Baghdad as a reporter. Firefights were surreal, chaotic, life-changing horrors, and he could imagine the effects that would have on Sammy and Anastasia. And that was only if they survived.
It was dusk, a time when light was dull and visibility was hazy. That worked in their favor. Sammy was ahead of them, protectively close to Ana. Both he and Jack were watching the streets. They heard sirens in the distance. Jack thought back to Sammy’s father constantly berating his kid, beating any sense of worth from his poor young body. Even when he became a Marine, he wasn’t an officer, he wasn’t a medal winner. Getting his father’s approval was a fool’s errand: he would never be good enough. When Sammy fell into the bottle, Jack tried to help. But Sammy didn’t want it, especially after the accident. He wanted to hide, not in a military unit but behind a bottle and a clown’s makeup. Jack just gave up. He had his own problems, then.
“I’m thinking you’re going to have a few other fronts to fight on,” Sol opined.
“I know,” Jack said.
“What do you mean?” Sammy asked.
“Right now someone is busy finding out who you are, who your relatives are—”
“Meaning my boat might not be a good permanent place to stash Sammy and Anastasia,” Jack said. He lived on the Sea Wrighter in the Sausalito Marina. Its only protection was Eddie, a poodle.
“Then where do we go?” Sammy asked. “A hotel?”
“Right now, let’s just worry about putting some distance between us and here,” Jack said. “Keep an eye out for a black Ford Explorer Limited.”
They started to cross the street to where Sol was parked when Anastasia’s words froze him in midstep. “Like that one?”
Several things happened at once. Jack’s head snapped to where the woman had been pointing. The Ford Explorer roared forward like a lion charging. And Anastasia Vincent shot off down Sansome Street like a frightened gazelle.
Sol had fallen back. The hit squad might not have seen him, might not know he was with the group. He peeled off and crossed the street.
Sammy was taken more by surprise than Jack, whose recent experiences made him physically prepared for pretty much anything. Sammy froze. Jack took his arm.
“Come on,” he said.
“Ana—”
“We’ll get her,” Jack assured him. “Come on.”
Jack glanced back. Sol’s Benz came to life. He fell back to meet it as it sped toward them.
The Ford squealed to a sudden halt. Whoever these guys were, they were definitely instructed not to attract the attention of the police or they would have smashed into Sol’s car without a second thought. No matter how well the Mercedes was made, a tricked-out Explorer would make quite a dent. Jack pulled the back door open. He did not doubt the Mercedes had bulletproof glass. He was equally sure the attackers wouldn’t realize that.
Jack jumped in first and pulled his half brother behind him. Sol stayed idling at the curb, his gun on the passenger’s seat. Both men were ready for what came next; they didn’t care if they attracted the police. As the SUV’s doors opened, Jack lowered his street-side window and leaned out. Other traffic stopped and pedestrians scattered as his silenced automatic started chewing up the Explorer, keeping the killers inside. Jack hadn’t counted on the rear door opening, however, and an assassin rolled out and took off after Anastasia.
Sammy grabbed Sol’s gun from the passenger seat and jumped out as Jack swore. “Once a Marine…” was fine, but now he knew that Sammy was also in love.
Jack laid down covering fire.
Take him down, Jack thought as he kept up the covering fire on the SUV’s passenger door. But Sammy didn’t fire. He was too busy closing the gap between himself and the pursuer.
Anastasia was as good a runner as she was a witness. She was nearly to Levi Plaza, the small industrial park that bridged Sansome with the Embarcadero. But her pursuer was in far better shape than Sammy. He was forced to stop, aim, and—
Nothing happened.
“Yeah, I shot my load,” Sol said.
“He’s outta my range!” Jack snapped, about to get out.
“I know. Stay put,” Sol said.
Gunning the armored Benz, he reached under the dashboard and pulled out a Kel-Tec semiautomatic pistol. It looked like a sawed-off AK-47 and acted just
like one, too. Anyone who saw the four-pound, nineteen-inch-long weapon with the thirty-round magazine knew they were in for trouble. He handed it to Jack.
“It’s Ric’s,” Sol said. “The bodyguard. He followed us on his phone tracker. I told him to leave it for me then go prepare the safe house.”
Smart, Jack thought. It wouldn’t have done to make the handoff at the hotel. And—of course he’d have a safe house.
Jack leaned through the window as the Mercedes shot past the Explorer. The Kel-Tec’s first two shots took out the Explorer’s front two tires. The SUV’s doors flapped open in response but the occupants weren’t fast enough. Jack turned and shredded the front of the vehicle like it was cardboard.
Jack braced himself, shoulder against the window frame, and aimed carefully at the man chasing Anastasia as she raced across the Embarcadero. The killer was slowing, pointing his own weapon in a direct line with the woman’s back. Sammy was straining to reach him in time.
Jack fired. He missed. More pedestrians fled. Sammy bellowed in impotent rage as the assassin steadied his firing arm, got the fleeing woman in his sights. Jack would have one more shot, had to make it a good one—
He held his fire. Jack and Sammy both heard the F Trolley car before they saw it. The orange carriage seemed to come from nowhere as it jerked around the corner like a springing alligator, urgently clanging its bell as the conductor saw the killer standing at the edge of the tracks. The men froze at the sensory overload. The car clipped the man from shoulder to hand, sending him staggering back, the gun flying. The trolley screeched to a halt several yards beyond where the man dropped.
Sol’s car was careening forward. Jack looked down at the fallen killer as they sped past him. He was crawling on his back, holding his shattered arm, trying to keep the trolley conductor and few passengers away from him.
Jack considered taking him but the guys from the Explorer were after them, on foot. They would be more intent on getting him away than in chasing Anastasia.
They caught up to Sammy. Sol slowed as Jack pulled him in. Then the mobster growled, eyes intent on the road, hands steady on the wheel. He homed in on Anastasia, who was still racing, staggering, her feet raw. To those around her, she was just another panicked pedestrian.
“Ana!” Sammy boomed out the window.
She looked back. As soon as she saw it was Sammy, she switched direction like a cheetah and dove into the door that Sol popped on the passenger’s side. Sammy leaned over the headrest and helped her in. Then Sol’s foot slammed on the accelerator and they were off.
Jack tried to check the rearview mirrors, but they were set for the driver’s point of view. He craned around to see if he could spot the men or the Ford Explorer. He squinted into the sharp headlights behind them. Neither were in sight.
Sol half-turned to Jack. “I’ll need about a half hour. You got a place we can sit?”
“My boat, the Sea Wrighter,” Jack said and started to give him directions.
“Don’t need ’em,” Sol said.
“Why? You know where I live?”
“No. As soon as I can, you’re taking the wheel. I lost my Bluetooth back there. I need to make a call.”
“Roger that,” Jack said.
“And what are we going to do after we get to your boat?” Sammy asked.
“Regroup,” Jack answered vaguely. “Sol has a plan.”
Sammy didn’t press for details. For the first time since leaving the hotel, the young woman smiled.
“Ana, while I still have my hands free, give me your phone,” Jack said.
She did as he instructed. He swiped it against his, then took out the SIM card and smashed it.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
“If they can text you, they can find you,” Sammy pointed out.
She nodded with understanding then cradled herself in Sammy’s arm. The man sat back, enjoying the moment of triumph, remembering what it felt like to be a man, savoring the presence of family who were there to help him and not hurt him.
It was worth being shot at to be Sammy right now.
4
West Point, New York
“Stop navel-gazing, Captain,” General Montgomery Morton snapped as he and Captain Steven Reynolds marched across the empty field of West Point’s skeet range. It was quiet on campus. The students and faculty were on vacation. But as high-ranking alumni and military officers, they still had the run of the place. “The sooner we get this over with, the better.”
In normal times, Captain Reynolds—the man Anastasia Vincent had dubbed “Pallor”—wouldn’t be anywhere near his alma mater. But these were not normal times.
What he and the others were trying to do had been described as “ambitious” by some members of the team, “crazy” by others. Whether it succeeded depended on how well they all completed their assignments. Reynolds had taken great personal pride in his end of the mission: securing the orthorhombic element they needed, getting it on a passenger aircraft rather than a military transport, smuggling it out of Russia, ditching the aircraft on the Caspian Sea, and conveying it by motorized raft to the Azerbaijani shore.
The plan was flawless. Had something gone wrong with the execution?
“At least it’s a beautiful day for a hanging,” Colonel Andrew “Bull’s-eye” Taylor—the man Anastasia thought of as “Kid”—smirked. As usual, his attitude grated on Morton’s nerves. He was the spoiled scion of a wealthy family sliding through life with a smug grin on his face.
“Shut up, Bull’s-eye,” Morton snapped. “You know your wisecracks don’t fly with the General.”
“The way he sounded, I’ll be surprised if anything will be flying with the General anymore,” Taylor said to Morton. “Don’t you know when you’ve been summoned to an execution?”
Silence settled on the three men, unremarkable in their tweed shooting clothes. They made their way onto the United States Military Academy’s outdoor rifle range, arriving at the ordered time.
General Thomas Brooks, also in a tweed jacket, was standing at the outdoor rifle table lined with Browning, Caesar Guerini, and Winchester shotguns. A solid, square, man with the swept-back gray hair and a lined, wind-burnished face, he looked at the three with flinty eyes. Bull’s-eye felt the man’s power, even when he didn’t want to. Here was a soldier who became a three-star general by doing incredibly brave acts that verged on insanity—insanity that could just as easily be focused on his subordinates.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he told them in his gravelly voice. “‘Is this wise, General? Should we be seen together?’” Brooks hefted his Remington 1100 and rested it on his shoulder as if on a parade ground. “Well, RHIP.” They all knew what that meant: Rank Has Its Privileges. “How do you keep people from noticing a group of West Point graduates? You put them in a place where people are accustomed to seeing them.”
Bull’s-eye felt even more anxious now. There was no one around.
“You ordered us here, General,” Morton said. “We’re here. What’s this about?”
“What is this about?” Brooks said softly, ominously. “Firebird is fine, if that’s what concerns you.”
That was both good news and bad news. At once, the other three men knew what this was about.
“‘I will cast terror into the hearts of those who disbelieve,’” Brooks quoted, as if Morton hadn’t spoken. “‘Therefore strike off their heads and strike off every fingertip of them.’ Who said that?”
He looked into the face of each man. Reynolds seemed to look back at him but, in fact, his gaze wavered between the general’s eyebrows and eyelashes. Bull’s-eye looked around, like a soldier on point. Only Morton stared back defiantly, his lips tight.
“The Quran, sir,” Morton replied sharply. “Verse 8:12. Just one of the more than one hundred verses that call Muslims to war with what they call ‘nonbelievers.’”
“And who do they call ‘nonbelievers’?” Brooks asked.
“Anyone who isn’t Musli
m,” Reynolds interrupted. “Quran 5:51 states that Muslims are not to take Jews and the Christians for friends. Allah describes them as ‘unjust people.’”
“The Quran invokes ‘kill the infidel’ a hundred and twenty times,” Brooks said quietly, almost to himself. He gazed at the empty sky. “What kind of sane nation permits these people to practice such open hatred?”
“Sir,” Morton said. “I thought we were here to discuss Firebird—”
General Thomas Brooks, U.S. Strategic Command, lowered his Remington shotgun and fired a warning blast of scattershot at Reynolds’s foot. Reynolds’s shins caught a few ricocheting pellets.
Morton and Bull’s-eye stiffened. Reynolds fell to one knee, but by sheer force of will he did not scream. After a moment, as the shock fled and pain struck he hissed, then grit his teeth, then slammed both fists into the ground.
Brooks didn’t even look at him. Instead he locked eyes with Morton.
“We are planning to detonate a super-weapon in Mecca and you spend weeks—weeks!—screwing around with whores?”
Thoughts shot through Morton’s head like spears. “That was my fault, not—”
“How do you know I’m finished?” Brooks seethed.
Morton’s lips clapped shut. It had been on the news: the pursuit, the shoot-out. But the incident had been scrubbed. There was nothing to tie it to them. The assassins had gone to ground, medical attention was very private, provided by a doctor who asked no questions. General Brooks was never to know.
“You were very thorough covering your tracks,” Brooks said. He stepped forward. “Am I unfamiliar with men under stress? FDR had eyes on Ike to make sure he didn’t crack before D-Day. Didn’t you think I’d have someone watching you all once we pulled the trigger on this?”
Morton drew air through his nostrils.
“Thom, we took precautions,” he pleaded honestly. “I couldn’t discuss Firebird with my family. None of us could.”
“I do not tolerate weakness. Or indulgence. Or incompetence! You’re still needed,” Brooks stressed, then looked toward Bull’s-eye. “As are you.” He looked sadly at Reynolds, who stared back with bloodshot eyes. “Your part of the task was complete. And done well, or you would be dead now rather than crippled.” He looked back at Morton. “No more mistakes. Secure the mission and its personnel.”
Countdown to Mecca Page 4
