Eyes lock.
She tightens her grip and pulls out the gun.
Nash and Sparks are in the other room. Sparks lowers the laptop’s screen and stows it in its bag while Nash collects the folders that make him feel like he’s tapering with evidence from a crime scene.
Lane steadies her aim as the barrel raises chest height.
Robertson has his gun free, the silencer still in his pocket. Lane smirks and squeezes the trigger. Knowing he is at a disadvantage fires a fraction of a second before Lane hoping for a lucky shot.
Mooney walks toward the door with Morgan pulled close to his side and whispers, ‘Don’t be late.’ He says it more to reinforce the time constraint than to remind his friend not to try anything stupid. Opens the door.
The captain lifts her head, fingers poised on her keyboard as if awaiting instructions. Morgan delivers the news about the unplanned trip.
‘Get a plane ready. We have eight—’
‘Five,’ Mooney interrupts looking cordially at the captain. ‘We only have five travelling with us today.’
Morgan corrects himself. ‘That’s right…five. We need to be airborne ASAP. An emergency stateside. Get us to Boston. We’ll refuel in San Francisco. ETD is on the hour.’
Having never witnessed the General correct himself, Captain Nancy Smith—staunch military type who has been the General Morgan’s assistant for three years and two months—pauses and looks questioning between both men. Morgan nods for her to do as she’s told.
Mooney knows Morgan will call his daughter and warn her. Let him, Mooney thinks. Better her sound all fine and chirpy and end the call with her being confused and scared. A reminder of what’s at stake. And besides, a professional isn’t seen unless he wants to be seen, and then it’s too late. Let him call. It will only mess with his mind.
The Captain makes the call. ‘Sir!’ Cups the phone and adds looking up at the office clock, ‘I’ll have it ready to leave in twenty.’ Waits for the other person to pick up.
Morgan thanks her with two taps of his knuckles on her desk and walks off with Mooney and mumbles once out of earshot, ‘You killed three people on my base?’
‘Should be five by now,’ Mooney replies.
‘The spooks?’
‘Not your concern,’ Mooney says matter-of-factly. ‘Meet me on the tarmac in five minutes. In six minutes I’ll make the call…Oh, and make sure you say hi to Molly for me.’
‘You’re psychotic. You’ll hang for this.’
‘Just keep thinking of family.’
Five minutes later Morgan stands next to Mooney on the apron, overnight bag slung over shoulder. Soldiers dash about stocking the plane with provisions and placing crates filled with DUST equipment carefully into the belly. A refueling truck turns quickly.
‘Sure is a sight to see, isn’t it?’ Mooney says remembering the times the pair had worked together.
‘I doubt I ever knew you at all,’ Morgan says.
A steward gives a soldier hand signals to the stairs to align with the door then waits for her passengers.
‘After you,’ Mooney says then looks at his watch and turns behind to the doors Morgan just walked through. ‘The rest of the team should be here soon.’
Sparks and Nash crouch behind metal bed legs at the sound of gunshots.
A searing pain erupts in Robertson’s side and he collapses. He is surprised Lane is also the ground. She fires, the bullet passes just above his head. Jostling on the floor, and struggling on one knee, Robertson returns fire. The bullet hits the vinyl floor an inch in front of her face.
Guards at both ends of the cordoned off building swing rifles around. The guard behind Lane has an easy shot. He raises his rifle, but Lane swings her arm and fires two rounds into the man’s chest, then swings her head back only to see Robertson hobbling into the room, firing blindly. The guard’s body makes a heavy thump as it hits the ground. The guard at the other end of the hallway crouches on one knee and burst three bullets. She hears two whizz past, the third shatters the glass in the vending machine. She steadies herself and fires. Her shot, a direct hit between the eyes. He falls backward against the door and slides down like honey dripping from a knife.
Robertson’s out of bullets. The spent gun left to drop to the ground. He pulls the fire alarm: a siren followed by sprinklers.
‘Follow me,’ Robertson says breathing heavily. ‘Bitch,’ he adds leaning out the door for a take on Lane. ‘She’s trying to kill us all.’
‘You’ve been shot,’ Sparks says feeling squeamish at the sight of blood.
‘Get up,’ Robertson says leaning heavily to one side. ‘The mist will provide some protection.’ And goes over and grabs Sparks by the collar and pulls him up onto his feet. Sparks sees the red wound spreading through whitened fingers and decides here is just fine. ‘…You go. If it’s clear, I’ll be right behind you… promise.’ His voice trembling.
‘You stay, you die. Understand?’ Looks to both men.
‘Okay,’ Sparks tries to shake the logic into his head. Wipes water from his eyes and brow, nods to Nash who nods slowly back.
‘Out the door, run to the right,’ Robertson says looking at the door as if it’s electrified and itching to shock him. ‘We have to get on the plane.’ Then pointing to the folders and laptop: ‘Leave ‘em.’
Huddled together, Sparks and Nash agree more in fear than a clear understanding of the consequences of their actions and stand either side of Robertson taking his weight.
‘Ready?’ Robertson breathes sharply as the pain intensifies. ‘Three…two…one.’
Sparks and Nash tense as Robertson suddenly goes heavy.
‘Go!’
Wet and unable to move with sustained momentum, Lane crawls forward and watches as the three men dart out of the room and past the dead guard. Unable to focus on the blurred targets, she holds fire.
The three emerge from the building and board the plane.
‘It’s Robertson, he’s been shot,’ Sparks says straining up the stairs. ‘He needs the base hospital.’
‘Too late for that, we’re taking off,’ Mooney says and orders the pilot to do so despite the base going into lockdown.
Twenty-six minutes and fourteen-seconds after Mooney gave Morgan the ultimatum of choosing between the US Navy or the life of his only daughter, they are airborne and on their way to Boston.
47
Hanger 7, Space Center Kennedy, Florida
Masen paces. The arrival of Bradbury and Pak starts making him nervous. What’s stopping other people arriving? Mooney’s people. A bomb. Soldiers might walk through the door anytime. Maybe Pak is wrong about Mooney and he has an army waiting to be teleported.
Maybe the other option Mooney meant is leaving Japan.
‘There’s three of them, and three of us,’ Masen says pointing the gun at the men on the mattress. And looks questioning between Bradbury and Pak.
Bradbury bites her lip at the memory of Rason, when she impersonated being a soldier. ‘I don’t know…’
‘We can’t just walk out of here,’ Pak says flicking the loose plastic bio-suit that hides nothing underneath. ‘They’ll notice I’m no soldier.’
‘It worked for you in Rason,’ Masen reasons.
Bradbury folds her arms tightly across her chest.
‘We had diversions.’ Pak screws up his face. ‘We had a container…time.’
‘And a way out,’ she adds.
Pak throws up hands. ‘All we have are uniforms.’
Masen moves closer to the pair. ‘We might be able to enlist help.’
Bradbury and Pak look questioning at each other.
‘Bozeman works for General Mooney.’
Bradbury places a comforting hand on Masen’s hand. ‘You’re all over the news…someone who stole secrets for the Chinese and attacked—’
‘Not attacked,’ Masen’s snaps. ‘I blew it up.’ He knows even if they get out, he would on
ly be stepping out of one prison into a larger one. His face and description known to law enforcement officer in the country.
‘I meant everyone knows what you look like,’ she says in a consolatory tone. ‘You need to hide.’
Masen runs a hand over his face. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean…’
‘We’re all under enormous stress.’
It’s true, he should hide, and maybe he would have a few months ago, but something has changed inside that stops him thinking of running and hiding. ‘We can’t stay here.’
‘You’ll clear your name,’ Bradbury says.
‘Maybe Bozeman doesn’t know all the details of Mooney’s plan,’ Masen says then looks over at the soldiers on the mattress. ‘They think Mooney can’t stand him. Maybe he tells Bozeman as little as possible. And remember we’re dead, so we’ll know as soon as I talk to Bozeman if Mooney’s told him what happened in Japan.’
‘And if Bozeman reports back to Mooney?’ Pak asks.
‘We have to risk it,’ Masen says then looks over at the metal box. ‘Nothing as risky as doing what we just did.’
Both Bradbury and Pak shrug a guarded acceptance.
Masen takes out the cell from his pocket and changes caller ID to private, finds the number and calls.
Pak takes the gun without being prompted as Masen places the cell to his ear and turns away.
‘Bozeman,’ Bozeman announces. There’s a muffled hissing noise in the background.
‘I thought we were friends,’ Masen says.
‘Jimbo, nice to hear from you!’ Bozeman says breathing heavily. ‘Sorry about your car…and not telling you about, well, you know.’ His voice labors taking a deep breath. ‘I was there. Damn shame, though you don’t need to get that annoying knock in the shift fixed…So Sparks filled you in?’
‘Marcy from Giorgiana’s told me your ID was fake.’
‘I remember. Cute girl. Blew me off. Told me to come back when I got a real badge. So you knew.’ He means when they met back at Maloney’s Bar & Grill with Sparks.
‘Suspected.’
‘Sorry about what happened back at the apartment.’
Masen touches his side, the pain faded.
‘General Mooney gave us a similar welcoming ceremony,’ Masen says then pauses. ‘Sparks blindsided by him dulled the pain somewhat.’
Bozeman laughs. ‘That’s Mooney for you.’ Then more stoically: ‘Where are you calling from?’ Masen can almost hear Bozeman squinting as he asked the question. ‘Sounds like you’re inside a big empty room, or a hanger?’
‘Japan, working with Mooney.’
Bozeman grunts with indifference.
Masen looks at Bradbury and turns the cell sideways and cups a hand to amplify the sound, and says, ‘I wanted to ask you about Assistant Director Zane Black.’
Silence.
He continues. ‘He’s a double agent who had someone kill my landlord and dog. He’s trying to steal valuable information, that’s why we blew up the building, to stop him.’
‘Wondered why,’ Bozeman says. ‘Thanks for filling in the blanks. Thought it was something like that.’
Bradbury and Masen look at each other relaxed that he is probably out in the cold. That Mooney doesn’t tell him everything.
‘Yeah, got one agent out, but the other…in the parking lot.’ They hear the remorse in his voice. ‘There’s been a shooting inside the building. Black was wounded but they can’t find him. It’s like he’s vanished. He shot a guard point blank. I wanted to go after him but had to get to the parking lot to see what I could do to help.’
Masen thinks, the curtain. He must be hiding behind the glass wall where he swore he saw the curtain move, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
‘I know where Black is,’ Masen says. Thinks, I know where the General’s headed. The data will only be safe for another day at best before the scene is secured and workers return to their stations. The Barn, once again open for business.
‘What’s that hissing sound?’ Masen asks.
‘Private plane. We’re heading to Florida, Kennedy Space Center. Never been there, Florida that is. One of my ex’s settled there a few years back. Wanted a few thousands kilometers between us. Ironic if you ask me. She always said we were growing apart.’
Masen can’t believe his luck. Bradbury pulls back startled. Masen gestures be quiet. ‘I’m jealous, it’s freezing over here. What’s down there?’
‘Just some equipment Mooney wants me to pick up.’
‘Long flight?’
‘Nearly over actually.’ There’s a pause. ‘Yep, see the peninsula coming up.’
‘Remind me to hit you in the head next time I see you,’ Masen says and hangs up.
‘He’s our ride out of here,’ Bradbury says.
‘Time to get into uniform,’ Masen says.
Arranging the soldiers to undress one at a time, it isn’t long before both Pak and Bradbury pull jackets and pants on. Masen had to strip down to his underwear and T-shirt to fit into his.
The soldiers are gagged, hands tied behind backs and legs tightly secured with the use of strips of fabric Kim fashioned from socks.
‘Do we know how many are coming?’ Pak asks as they walk to the door.
Masen hadn’t thought how many men Bozeman would be bringing with him. It’s not like he could have asked. ‘Maybe Bozeman and one other?’ Masen guesses looking at the meager equipment that would actually fit on a private plane and be of value. ‘We need to wait until he’s inside and the door closed before we reveal ourselves.’
By the door, Bradbury turns off the lights.
‘Be still,’ Tagan instructs Bozeman as he cuts layers of dried blood and sodden fabric from his leg. ‘Jesus.’ Throws his head back. ‘That’s rancid. Who did that hatchet job?’ asks liberally applying disinfectant and pulls out fresh bandages from a medical bag. ‘You might loose the leg if you don’t get to a hospital.’
‘Thanks,’ Bozeman winces flipping close his cell phone and flexing his leg. ‘Feels better already.’
‘It might be a bit tight as we descend and air pressure increases,’ Tagan says finishing securing bandage clips.
Soon the plane touches down and they jerk in their seats as the pilot breaks. Taxing, they stop to give way for a large cargo transport plane that had been given airways clearance and permission for a rolling takeoff.
Outside the building a refueling truck pulls up and parks behind the plane. The driver jumps out, pulls on leather gloves that hang from his belt and unspools a hose and connects it to the fuel inlet. He signals the cockpit and starts the flow.
Massaging a knot in his neck, Tagan looks over at Bozeman as they walk across the tarmac and asks, ‘Remind me why I’m in Florida.’
‘You wanted out of prison. Don’t worry, you’ll be home soon. Quick turnaround,’ Bozeman says studying a list of equipment on his cell Mooney had texted him earlier. ‘Plus I need an extra pair of hands. Got to pick up a few things and then we’re out of here.’
A soldier springs out of his jeep and salutes Bozeman as the pair approach. A deck of cards falls to the ground and some cards dance across the tarmac. Another soldier by the jeep straightens his back and salutes. ‘Colonel, we’ve been expecting you. We have a team in there already packing things up,’ the soldier explains.
‘Right…good job.’ Bozeman fumbles a salute in return. Then facing Tagan: ‘Maybe I didn’t need you after all.’
The man nods and looks down at his leg.
‘After you,’ Bozeman gestures to Tagan.
Tagan grabs the handle and starts to turn it. ‘So you want me to carry boxes?’
‘You said it yourself, I might lose the leg.’
The handle turns.
Pak gasps as light spills through the gap in the door, only to darken as if something is blocking the light. Masen hushes with a finger and mouths in exaggeration, ‘Wait.’ His grip on the gun tightens.
/>
The door is pushed inward and a leg extends into the space, clothed in blue material and a polished back boot.
Masen thinks, that’s not Bozeman. The man’s head is highlighted from an exit sign above. Badges visible as he turns behind.
‘Is there a light switch?’ the man asks as his hand searches blindly.
‘Should be a switch inside.’ Bozeman extends an arm around to the left, nearly clipping Bradbury on the shoulder. ‘Can’t feel one.’
She freezes hearing and feeling his strained breath.
Bozeman comes into view. The stomach casts an impressive entrance a few inches before his head and feet. Masen’s heart pounds, every inch of his body trembles as he waits for Bozeman to take another step. Protruding the barrel into the light to judge the distance from Bozeman’s head, places the steel against his soft flesh. He freezes.
‘Surprised to see me ?’ Masen whispers. ‘Very quietly move inside.’
‘Can’t see anything,’ Tagan protests as the door closes, unaware of what’s happening behind him.
Masen cracks the butt of the gun against Bozeman’s head with sufficient force to fell his substantial frame to the ground like a giant tree. And struggles to pull his foot from underneath Bozeman’s body. By the time Tagan has an inkling that something is wrong, Masen strikes him in the stomach.
‘Ouff!’
‘To the ground now,’ Masen orders with quiet urgency.
‘Who’s this guy?’ Pak asks pushing the man to the ground.
‘…Think he’s a paramedic from Boston,’ Masen says recognizing the insignia and uniform. He closes the door. Bradbury switches on the banks of lights which clunk flickering on.
‘Take this.’ Masen thrusts the gun into Pak’s hands who then points it at the man doubled-over and wincing on the ground in front of Bozeman. ‘And watch him,’ Masen gestures with both hands not to shoot.
Masen is running on high octane, has been ever since he exploded into trillions of atoms and sent as information to the other side of the world where he was reassembled. A mixture of the thrill of being alive and abject terror keeps him running and his electrical system firing at full capacity.
Iris Rising Page 26
