by Jack Mars
Sara glanced over at her. A smile very nearly passed her lips—but then her eyes widened and she sat up suddenly. “Do you hear that?”
Maya listened intently. She did hear it; the sound of a powerful engine rumbling nearby. Then it stopped abruptly.
“Stay here.” She hurried back to the foyer and once again parted the blinds. A silver SUV had pulled into their driveway. Her pulse quickened as four men got out. Two of them wore suits; the other two wore all black, with tactical vests and combat boots.
Even from this distance Maya could see the insignia emblazoned on their sleeves. The two black-clad men were from the same organization that had attempted to kidnap them in Switzerland. Watson had called them the Division.
Maya rushed to the kitchen, sliding in her socks, and pulled a steak knife from the bamboo block on the counter. Sara had risen from the couch and hurried to join her.
“Go downstairs.” Maya held the knife out, handle first, to her sister. “Get in the panic room. I’ll be right behind you.”
The doorbell rang.
“Don’t answer it,” Sara pleaded. “Just come with me.”
“I’m not going to open the door,” Maya promised. “I’m just going to see what they want. Go. Close the door. Don’t wait for me.”
Sara took the knife and hurried down the basement steps. Maya crept carefully to the front door and peeked through the peephole. The two men in suits stood right outside.
Where did the other two go? she wondered. Back door, most likely.
Maya jumped a little as one of the two men knocked briskly on the door. Then he spoke, his voice loud enough to hear from outside. “Maya Lawson?” He held up a badge in a leather ID holder as she peered through the peephole. “Agent Coulter, FBI. We need to ask you some questions about your father.”
Her mind raced. She was certain that she was not going to answer the door for them. But would they try to force their way in? Should she say something, or pretend they weren’t home?
“Ms. Lawson?” the agent said again. “We would really prefer to do this the easy way.”
Long shadows danced against the floor of the foyer in the setting sun. She glanced up quickly to see two shapes passing by the rear entrance, a sliding glass door that led to a small deck and patio. It was the other two men, the ones from the Division, stalking around behind the house.
“Ms. Lawson,” the man called out again. “This is your last warning. Please open the door.”
Maya took a deep breath. “My father isn’t here,” she called out. “And I’m a minor. You’re going to have to come back.”
She peered through the peephole again to see the FBI agent grinning. “Ms. Lawson, I think you’re misunderstanding the situation.” He turned to his partner, a taller and burlier man. “Kick it in.”
Maya sucked in a breath and backpedaled several steps. The doorjamb cracked, splinters of wood hurtling through the air, and the front door flew open.
The two agents took one step into the foyer. Maya felt frozen to the spot. She wondered if she could make a run for the basement and get to the panic room in time. But if Sara had done as Maya had told her and closed the door, they’d never get it shut again before the agents caught up to her.
Her gaze must have flitted toward the basement door, because the closer of the two agents smirked. “How about you stay right there, little lady?” The agent that had spoken through the door had sandy hair and a face that might have been friendly and boyish if they hadn’t just kicked their way in. He put his empty hands up. “We’re not armed. We don’t want to hurt you or your sister.”
“I don’t believe you,” Maya said. She glanced over her shoulder quickly, just for a half second, to see the shadows of the two black-clad men still stalking outside on the deck.
WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! A siren suddenly blared out through the house, an earsplitting klaxon that had all three of them looking around in bewilderment. It took Maya a moment to realize that it was their alarm system, activated when the door was kicked in and set to go off in sixty seconds if the code wasn’t punched in.
The police, she thought hopefully. The police will come.
“Shut it off!” the agent shouted at her. But she didn’t move.
Then—glass shattered behind her. Maya jumped and spun instinctively at the sound as the sliding patio door exploded inward. One of the black-clad men stepped through.
She didn’t stop to think, but a memory flashed through her mind in an instant: the hotel in Engelberg, Switzerland. The Division man posing as CIA, forcing his way in, attacking her.
Maya spun again quickly to face the FBI agents. One of them was near the panel, but he was facing her as the alarm continued to blare wildly. The eyes of the other agent, the boyish one, were wide and his hands were slightly in the air. His mouth was moving, but his words were drowned out by the screaming alarm.
Strong arms grabbed her from behind and she yelped. She struggled against her assailant, but he was strong. She smelled sour breath as the man wrapped her tightly, immobilizing her.
He hauled her off her feet and held her there, legs kicking and arm forced upward at a painful angle. She wasn’t strong enough to fight him off.
Relax, her brain instructed. Don’t struggle. She had taken self-defense classes at the university with a former Marine who had put her in this exact scenario—a larger, heavier assailant grabbing her from behind.
Maya tucked her chin down, almost touching her clavicle.
Then she slammed her head backward as hard as she could.
The Division man holding her cried out in pain as the back of her skull connected with his nose. His grip fell slack, and her feet touched the floor again. As soon as they did, she twisted her body, ducked her head low to get out of his arms, and then dropped her weight in a crouch.
She was all of a hundred and five pounds. But as she dropped, the man’s arm still looped in her elbow, he was suddenly a hundred and five pounds heavier, and his balance was thrown by the sharp blow to his face.
He teetered and sprawled onto the tile of the foyer. Maya jumped backward, away from him, as he fell. She glanced over her shoulder to see the second Division man standing in the broken doorway, seemingly hesitant to make a swift move now that she’d dropped his pal.
She was only a few feet from the basement door. She could make a run for it, get to the panic room until the police arrived…
The mercenary in the doorway reached behind him, and he pulled out a black pistol. Maya’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of it.
CRACK! Even over the blaring alarm they both heard the sharp sound. Maya and the mercenary both spun again.
The FBI agent who had kicked in the door, the one closest to the alarm panel, had his head stuck in the drywall of the foyer. His body was limp.
A figure lumbered forward and swung the tire iron again, landing a solid smack across the second agent’s jaw. The sound of it set Maya’s teeth on edge, and the agent slumped like a limp noodle.
As the Division merc lifted his gun at the new threat, the burly man reared back and hurled the tire iron through the air. It flipped end over end, passing by Maya by less than a foot, and smacked solidly into the merc’s forehead. He barely made a sound as his body fell backward through the broken doorway.
The large man wore a trucker’s cap over a bushy beard. His eyes twinkled blue. He nodded to her once and gestured toward the alarm panel.
Maya’s legs felt like jelly as she rushed over to it and punched in the code. The alarm finally fell silent.
“Mitch?” she said breathlessly.
“Mm,” the man grunted. On the floor of the foyer, the Division member that Maya had dropped attempted to get to his feet, holding his bloody nose. “I’ll take care of him. Call nine-one-one. Tell them there’s no problem.”
Maya did as he instructed. She hurried to the kitchen, snatched up her dad’s cell phone, and dialed 911. She watched as Mitch the mechanic stepped over to the Division merc and l
ifted one heavy brown boot.
She looked away before he dropped it on the man’s face.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“My name is Maya Lawson. I live at 814 Spruce Street in Alexandria. Our alarm system went off by accident. I left the door open. There’s no emergency.”
“Please hold one moment, Ms. Lawson.” She heard the clacking of a keyboard for a moment, and then the dispatcher told her, “We have a patrol car on the way, about three minutes out. Even if you say there’s no emergency, we’d still like to have someone stop by. It’s protocol.”
“Really, everything’s fine.” She glanced over at Mitch desperately. They couldn’t have a cop come by with four bodies in the house. She wasn’t even sure if any of them were dead or just unconscious.
“Even so, Ms. Lawson, we’ll have an officer at least check in. If there’s no emergency, then there’s no problem.”
Mitch reached into a pocket of his oil-stained jeans and pulled out a flip phone that must have been fifteen years old. He dialed a number and then grunted something quietly into it.
“Um…” The dispatcher hesitated. “Ms. Lawson, are you certain there’s no emergency?”
“I’m certain, yes.”
“All right. You have a nice day.” The dispatcher abruptly ended the call. From beyond the shattered glass door, Maya heard sirens suddenly erupt in the distance—fading quickly.
“What did you do?” she asked Mitch.
“Called in a bigger emergency.”
“Are they… alive?”
Mitch glanced around and then shrugged one shoulder. “He’s not,” he grunted, gesturing toward the agent with his head in the wall. Maya’s stomach churned as she noticed a thin rivulet of blood running down the drywall where the agent’s head was jammed in it.
How many people are going to die in this house? she couldn’t help but wonder.
“Get your sister. And your phones. We’re leaving.” Mitch stepped over the Division merc’s body and over to his friend. He grabbed the man by the ankles and dragged him into the house, and then scooped up the black pistol.
Maya hurried down the stairs to the basement. She stood in front of the camera that was mounted over the door to the panic room. “It’s just me, Sara. You can open the door.”
The thick steel security door pushed open from the inside, and her sister’s timid face appeared. “Are we okay?”
“For now. Come on. We’re leaving.”
Back upstairs, Sara noted the carnage with wide eyes, but said nothing. Mitch was rummaging in the kitchen. “You got a first-aid kit?”
“Yeah. Here.” Maya slid open a drawer and pulled out a small white metal box with a hinged lid and a red cross on the top.
“Thanks.” Mitch pulled out an antiseptic wipe and then snapped open a razor-tipped knife. Maya took a step back at the sight of it. “I’m real sorry,” the mechanic said, “but this next part is going to be a little unpleasant. You both got trackers in your right arm. They gotta come out. It’s subcutaneous; under the skin and above the muscle. That means it’s gonna sting like hell for a minute, but I promise it won’t be too bad.”
Maya chewed her lip nervously. She had nearly forgotten about the tracking implant. But then, much to her surprise, Sara stepped forward and tugged up her right sleeve. She reached for Maya’s hand and held it tightly. “Do it.”
*
There was a lot of blood, but not much pain as Mitch made quick work of the two trackers. The implant was hardly the size of a grain of rice; Maya marveled at it as Mitch dabbed the half-inch long cut and pressed a bandage over it.
“Now we can go.” Mitch took the first-aid kit, the mercenary’s gun, both of the girls’ phones, and the two tiny implants. They followed him outside and watched as he put the phones and the implants in the agents’ SUV. Then he made another call on his flip phone.
“I need a cleanup,” he grunted. “Zero’s house on Spruce Street. Four. One car. Take it west and then vanish it.” He hung up.
The three of them climbed into the cab of an old pickup that had “Third Street Garage” emblazoned on the side. It rumbled to life and pulled away from the curb.
Neither of the girls looked back.
Maya, seated in the center between Mitch and Sara, noted the mechanic’s thick knuckles, his fingertips stained in both grease and blood. “So where are we going?” she asked.
Mitch grunted without taking his eyes off the road. “Nebraska.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Zero parked the car right on the abandoned airstrip of Meadow Field. He had taken a slightly circuitous route there, sticking to back roads and avoiding the highways for fear that the CIA might have flagged his car—which he was certain they had.
Meadow Field was comprised of just a single runway, the building and hangar long since torn down in the fifteen years of disuse. Weeds and flowers sprouted up through cracks in the tarmac and the ignored grass on either side of the runway grew tall with disregard.
But despite its appearance, it was a gratifying and welcome sight for Zero. About thirty yards away was an old pickup truck, the side of it painted with stenciled letters that read “Third Street Garage.” The burly mechanic leaned against the driver’s side door, his trucker’s cap pulled low over his brow.
As Zero hurried over to the truck, his daughters climbed out of the cab and ran to him. He grabbed one of them in each arm, ignoring the pain in his broken hand as he squeezed them both tight.
“You okay?” he asked.
“There was some trouble,” Maya admitted as she hugged him back. “But we had help.”
Zero nodded and released them, but stayed down on his knee so that he was just about eye level with Sara. “All right, listen to me. I’m going to be straight with you.” He had been thinking about it the whole ride here, what he would say to them, and he’d decided to just lay it out. Their lives were already in danger as it was, and they deserved to know why. “There are some powerful people who want to start a war. They’ve been planning it for a long time, and it’s all for their personal gain. If they’re allowed to get away with this, it will mean a lot of innocent people dying. I’m going to talk to the president directly and alert him to what’s going on, but I can’t trust that he won’t put his faith in the wrong hands. This could very well lead to a new world war.”
“And you can’t let that happen,” Sara said quietly.
Maya nodded solemnly.
“That’s right. And…” Zero breathed a heavy sigh. “And it means that things are probably going to be bad for a little while. They know that the two of you are the easiest way to get to me, so you need to disappear and hide out until this is all over. I don’t know when that will be. I don’t know…” He stopped himself again. He wanted to tell them, I don’t know that I’ll survive this, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words.
He didn’t have to. They knew what he meant. Tears welled in Maya’s eyes and she looked away. Sara hugged him again, and he squeezed her tightly.
“You’re going to go with Mitch, and you’re going to have to do whatever he says, okay?” Zero heard tremors in his own voice. He was keenly aware, now more so than ever, that this might be the last time he ever saw his girls. “He’ll keep you safe. And you watch each other’s back.”
“We will,” Sara whispered in his ear.
“Good. Now you stay put for a minute while I go talk to Mitch. I’ll be right back.” He let go of Sara and strode over to the pickup truck where the mechanic was waiting idly.
“Thank you,” Zero told him. “You don’t owe me anything. I appreciate all of this, and when it’s done I’ll pay you back in whatever way I’m able.”
“No need,” the mechanic grunted. His trucker’s cap was still pulled low, obscuring his eyes while his thick beard covered the rest of his face.
“Where will you take them?”
“There’s an old WITSEC house in rural Nebraska,” Mitch said. “Small cabin just outs
ide a small town, practically middle of nowhere. Hasn’t been used in years but it’s still a government listing. I’ll take ’em there. They’ll be safe.”
“Thank you,” Zero said again. He didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t even sure why he was so easily able to trust this man with the two most important people in his life; it was a feeling, an instinct that transcended logic. But he had learned long ago—and relearned only hours ago—to trust his instincts.
“So,” Mitch grunted. “It’s finally happening, isn’t it?”
Zero blinked at him in surprise. “Yes,” he said cautiously. “You know about all this?”
“I do.”
He almost scoffed. “Who are you really?”
“A friend.” Mitch checked his wristwatch. “Chopper should be here any moment. It’ll take us to a private airfield, where we’ll hop a plane out west.”
Zero deflated. It didn’t seem like he was getting any more answers out of the mysterious mechanic. “Thanks,” he murmured once more. Then he turned back to say goodbye to his girls.
“You’re back,” said the mechanic behind him. “Aren’t you?”
Zero turned. “Yeah. I’m back.”
“When?”
He chuckled. “Today, if you can believe it. It’s been a very strange afternoon.”
“Well,” Mitch said. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”
Zero froze. An electric tingle ran up his spine. Mitch’s voice had changed suddenly, no longer the grunting basso from just seconds prior. It was smooth and even, and so oddly familiar that Zero forgot about the Division and his situation and even his waiting daughters for a moment.
Mitch reached up beneath the brim of his trucker’s cap and rubbed his eyes. At least that’s what it looked like he was doing, but when his hand came away there were two tiny concave discs on his fingertips, crystalline blue.
Contacts. He was wearing colored contacts.
Then Mitch took off the trucker’s cap, smoothed his hair, and looked up at Zero. His brown eyes looked forlorn, almost ashamed, and in an instant Zero knew exactly why.
