Berg feigned a smile, nodding stiffly, then taking another long pull of the velvety-smooth wine. Jackson studied him while taking the last bites of his meal. The rapidly expanding warmth of the wine did little to ease his underlying tension. His friend of many years shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Busted.
“You fucked it up, didn’t you?” said Jackson.
“I might have been passed some information I couldn’t ignore,” Berg admitted.
Jackson put his hand on the bottle of wine. “Should I tip this back right now? I hate to see it go to waste if the restaurant is about to blow up.”
Berg laughed softly. “I don’t think it’s that bad.”
Their waiter appeared, offering to pour the wine for Jackson, who graciously released his grip on the bottle and let the waiter fill his glass.
“Are you sure? You look a little—let me rephrase that—a lot out of sorts,” said Jackson. “I was just busting your chops earlier, thinking it was retirement nerves. How bad is this? Really.”
“It’s something our new overlords would prefer to remain buried. But the information could seriously help them throw some more dirt on that certain something.”
“Then this is a good thing. Maybe get you bumped up a retirement tier or two as a thank you,” said Jackson, holding up his glass for a toast.
“I’d be happy to get out of there without a bull’s-eye painted on my back,” said Berg.
“Well, it doesn’t sound like something you need to worry about.”
“Maybe not from that angle. The information itself is another story.”
“I assume it’s highly classified and completely inappropriate to share in public, especially over an expensive wine, which you’re ruining.”
“I apologize for the dour mood. Here’s to you having enough money to retire after paying for college,” said Berg, clinking his glass.
“I’ll drink to that,” said Jackson.
They declined dessert, earning a momentary look of confusion from the waiter. The prix fixe meal included dessert. They opted for a fine cognac instead, instantly redeeming themselves in the establishment’s eyes, particularly at thirty dollars a glass. After another twenty minutes or so of purposefully, and sometimes awkwardly, avoiding the topic of their jobs, Berg paid the bill without looking at it. He didn’t trust his eyes not to freeze on the total, and the last thing he wanted to do was make his friend uncomfortable. The iconic Georgetown restaurant wasn’t the most expensive in town, but it gave the Michelin-star establishments a run for their money. His money. He treated himself at least once a week to an exquisite meal, an expense he could afford without kids in college.
They’d walked halfway to Darryl’s car, parked just past Thirty-Fifth Street on Prospect, when Berg realized they’d left the bottle of Barolo at the restaurant. Despite Jackson’s protests over not having paid for the wine, he’d convinced his friend to take the rest of the bottle back to his hotel.
“I forgot the wine,” said Berg. “I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t go back and get it on my behalf,” said Jackson.
One way or the other, he was leaving it with Jackson. Money really wasn’t an issue for Berg, but the thought of leaving fifty dollars of wine behind didn’t sit well with him.
“You’re not getting out of taking the wine,” Berg insisted.
Jackson held up his hands. “I wasn’t trying. You don’t have to twist my arm too tightly. I’ll pull the car up. See you in a few.”
“Yep,” said Berg, turning on the red brick sidewalk and heading back toward the restaurant.
The streets were quiet, mostly Georgetown students moving from friends’ apartments or returning from happy hour at one of several dozen bars or nightclubs within easy walking distance of the university. The closer to the weekend, the more hectic and chaotic the streets would get. He reached Thirty-Sixth Street, the restaurant’s entrance visible just past an annoyingly oversized black Suburban blocking his way. The SUV stayed in place, the driver’s silhouette barely visible through the tinted glass. He waited a few moments, deciding to walk behind the vehicle.
Some self-important asshole in the back was no doubt distracting the driver. Even the most modest homes in Georgetown often housed diplomats, politicians, or generationally wealthy families. None of whom cared the slightest about a man on a mission to retrieve fifty dollars’ worth of Italian wine.
The Suburban’s rear cargo doors sprang open, unleashing a blur of darkly dressed figures wearing ski masks. Before Berg could react, a hood was jammed over his head, turning his view pitch black. He pulled fruitlessly hard against the strong hands gripping his arms. A quick sideward jab from his right foot connected with something solid, producing a snap and an agonized groan. The grip on his right arm instantly tightened, his attacker’s weight pulling Berg toward the street.
Berg’s body locked in place, an incredible pain radiating from his stomach. The pain continued, along with an inability to voluntarily move. All he could do was fall to his knees. When his knees hit the pavement, he was lifted and pulled into the back of the Suburban by multiple hands. He heard the doors slam shut and somebody yell, “Let’s go!” The Suburban lurched forward.
Despite the residual pain and the oversized man literally sitting on him in the rear cargo compartment, he had enough mental clarity to determine that they had turned left, heading in Darryl’s direction. Berg genuinely hoped he hadn’t inadvertently killed his friend by inviting him to dinner.
“What about the other one?” said a voice.
“Negative. Get us out of here. I guarantee we had a witness or two,” replied a voice from the front of the SUV.
A few seconds later, the team leader spoke again.
“Scorpion, this is Stinger. Grab successful. Primary target undamaged. No collateral business.”
Undamaged?
He didn’t like the sound of being delivered undamaged. That implied someone else wanted to damage him.
“Possible street-level, passerby detection. No cameras in vicinity.”
Jesus. How long had they been watching and waiting for the perfect opportunity? He couldn’t have set it up better for them unless he’d opened one of the rear passenger doors and invited himself inside.
“Copy that. We’re about thirty minutes out,” said the voice.
Thirty minutes until his status would most likely change from undamaged to damaged. Very damaged. He hoped Jackson acted fast. His friend had nearly died laughing when Berg explained the details of the insurance policy he had arranged. The laughing stopped when he explained the steps and passed along the information Jackson needed if he disappeared.
Berg wasn’t sure if he stopped laughing because he took it seriously, or he’d written Berg off as clinically paranoid. Either way, he prayed that Jackson hadn’t tossed the information in the trash. Karl Berg hadn’t been grabbed for a stern “talking to” by True America goons. He was ultimately headed for permanent retirement, in a crematorium, plastic tub of acid, or tied to a block of concrete in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay. In his contorted, pretzel-like position, he managed to inch one of his hands along his right shin. It was all in Jackson’s hands now.
Chapter 29
Georgetown
Washington, D.C.
Darryl Jackson squeezed between his front bumper and a minivan that hadn’t been there when he parked the car with Berg.
“Goddamn. Get any closer?” he muttered, remembering the vast space separating the minivan and the car in front of it.
A black Suburban zoomed past, headed east on the tight street at an extremely unsafe speed.
“It’s not the interstate, you fucking idiot,” he said a little louder.
Jackson looked around the minivan to make sure the first SUV wasn’t part of some VIP convoy. Especially the diplomats. They wouldn’t even stop if they hit you. They’d drive to the embassy and dial it in ten minutes later. No harm, no foul. Diplomatic immunity. Satisfied that the st
reets were safe, he got in his car and spent the next minute inching backward and forward between the minivan and the car parked uncomfortably close behind him. Berg was probably swigging from the bottle at this point.
He arrived at the corner of Prospect and Thirty-Sixth Street, assuming Berg would be waiting for him on the side of the street. A quick look around killed that thought. A few students walked past the restaurant entrance on Thirty-Sixth, turning west on Prospect, toward the university. Jackson eased the car through the intersection slowly, still not seeing Berg. His friend was probably still inside, dealing with the wine. He parked between the no-parking sign and corner of Thirty-Sixth, far enough into the pedestrian crosswalk for Berg to see him if he emerged from the restaurant, and waited.
Jackson considered himself to be a patient man, but when three minutes passed and Berg didn’t appear, he started to get impatient. Karl knew a lot of people in this town, and it wasn’t unlike him to get distracted by an acquaintance, particularly a lady friend. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise him in the least to find Karl inside, chatting it up with someone and generously sharing the rest of the bottle. Tonight wasn’t going to be that night. He still had to drop Karl off at his apartment and check in to the hotel.
He left the car double-parked and headed into the restaurant, where the hostess immediately approached him with the corked bottle of Barolo.
“I thought you might be back,” she said, holding it out for him. “It’s a wonderful bottle.”
“It is,” he barely uttered, searching the restaurant for Karl.
“Is everything all right?” asked the hostess.
He absently took the bottle. “My friend didn’t come back inside?”
“I’ve been here since the two of you left. By the time the bottle reached me, I didn’t see either of you on the street. I went outside to check. Sorry.”
“No. That’s…uh, that’s fine. Do you mind holding onto this while I check the men’s room? Just in case. He was supposed to have grabbed the wine and waited outside.”
“Sure. No problem.”
The bathroom was empty, and he returned to the hostess with a bad scenario developing in his head.
“Didn’t find him?”
He shook his head. “You didn’t happen to see a black government-looking Suburban around a few minutes ago, did you?”
“Absolutely. It sat at the stop sign for a little longer than usual. I thought it might be some kind of VIP drop-in. I even looked through the reservation book to see if I could create a table, just in case.”
Jackson stood in front of the hostess stand and looked at the street. “You couldn’t see the entire vehicle. Right?”
“Just the front, really.”
They took him. Those motherfuckers had actually grabbed him off a public street, in front of a restaurant. Karl must have been onto something bigger than he guessed. He started for the door.
“Sir? Your wine,” said the hostess.
Jackson didn’t reply. He hustled down the sidewalk and got into his car, opening the dashboard and removing a concealable holster. He released his Sig Sauer P228 from the holster and placed it on the front passenger seat along with two spare magazines. The pistol was far from legal in the District of Columbia, but so was snatching people off the street. He shifted the car into drive and continued west on Prospect Street until he found a parking spot just past the “Welcome to Georgetown University” sign.
He grabbed the pistol and spare magazines and got out of the car, quickly concealing them on his way toward the campus. He needed to make a call, and he couldn’t make it from his car. They might have bugged it. In fact, he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to use it until he could sweep it for electronics. He’d have to do that from the tow lot. Without a parking sticker, the car wouldn’t last the night parked on campus.
With that in mind, he returned to the vehicle to get the concealable holster. No reason to raise any alarms with the D.C. police. They had a tendency to take unauthorized firearms seriously in this town and would be on the lookout for him by morning. Jackson couldn’t afford to be stopped at this point. His friend’s life depended on it.
Chapter 30
Downers Grove, Illinois
Daniel pulled the covers past Jessica’s shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. Whatever they had given her had been potent, delivered by an auto-injector. He found the nasty wound it had inflicted on her right thigh. This hadn’t been a little EpiPen. Something far more serious, like the kind of injectors used in the military-issued Mark I kits to counter the effects of a nerve gas attack. The thick needle had been powerful enough to penetrate her jeans.
He had no idea how long she’d be out, but he wanted to be the first face Jessica saw when she opened her eyes. She’d likely seen her mother stabbed right in front of her, unable to stop the man or make a sound to help her. He had no idea what kind of mental state she’d be in when she woke, but he assumed it would not be a good one. He needed to be there to hold her, make sure she knew everything was safe.
Once she was ambulatory, he would contact the private jet company and expedite their departure, no matter what the price. They had a number of jets on standby in the area, and he wanted be on one capable of a nonstop flight to Anguilla as soon as possible. He kissed her again and stepped out of the room, leaving the door open wide enough to hear if she called out. Not that he planned on being out of her sight for long.
The bedroom hallway led directly into the dining room, where Anish Gupta and Timothy Graves, long-standing members of the team’s electronics warfare branch, sat next to each other at the dining room table, their open laptops illuminating their faces. The usual array of wires, power cords, black boxes, and other gear cluttered the table. Daniel once again marveled at the electronic miracles they could work with that mess.
He felt oddly comfortable having them here. Their type of warfare might as well be magic spells and potions as far as he was concerned. Daniel was far from a technophobe, having been extensively trained in the use of commercial and military-grade encryption devices, communications gear, and electronic field gear, but he was just an end user. Guys like Graves and Gupta stood on the cutting edge of technology, creating the gear and carving out the cyber advantages that gave people like Daniel and Sanderson an edge. It was easy to take them for granted.
Nights like this reminded him how critical they could be to the success of an operation, not that he needed reminding with these two. He’d heard the stories about Uruguay. Graves had done more than type at a keyboard that day. Daniel leaned on the table with both hands, careful not to disturb any of their gear.
“Thank you.”
“Any time,” Graves said. “Good to see you again.”
“We have to stop meeting like this, Daniel,” Gupta added.
Graves looked at his counterpart.
“What? I’ve been waiting, like, a year to say that. It’s funny,” said Gupta.
“Don’t quit your day job. The delivery is way off.”
Daniel found himself laughing at and with them. The two made the oddest pair, but it worked brilliantly.
Graves inclined his head toward the bedroom door. “How is she?”
“I can’t find any serious physical trauma beyond the injector site and the Taser probe holes. She has a nasty bruise on her ribs, probably from a kick, but nothing to stop her from getting on a plane and flying out of here first thing.”
“You just got here,” said Gupta, winking at Petrovich.
Graves groaned and shook his head. “See what I mean? Way off.”
“I think your friend there is fucking with you,” said Daniel. “Sorry to dime you out, Anish, but you shouldn’t take advantage of your elders.”
“He is old. I’ve told him that,” said Gupta. “Glad to hear Jessica is all right. The two of you gave us one helluva fucking scare.”
“Thanks again. Seriously,” said Daniel. “That Serbian guy was good. Snatched Jessica right out from under me.”
/> “That didn’t sound right,” said Gupta.
Graves lightly hit the back of Gupta’s head. “What’s wrong with you?”
“He’s fine. I still have a sense of humor,” said Daniel. “I’m going to check in with the other wonder duo.”
“Can you tell Munoz junior to take a break? I got this covered,” said Gupta.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see,” said Graves, pushing his chair back. “I need one of those delicious-smelling coffees.”
He found Munoz at the kitchen table, doing exactly what he expected—drinking coffee, presumably one of his own brands by the toasty aroma. Melendez stood by the couch in the TV room, peeking through the edge of the curtains.
“I thought we had cameras doing that job,” said Daniel.
“I’ve seen these mofo’s hack enough cameras to keep me awake twenty-four seven,” Melendez replied.
Gupta yelled from the dining room, “We take active countermeasures to keep that from happening.”
“And they take countermeasures to counter your countermeasures. It’s a never-ending cycle of electronic cluster-fuckery, and I don’t understand any of it.”
“That’s your real problem with it,” said Gupta.
“I think you can stand down,” said Daniel, looking to Graves for support.
Graves nodded. “He really does have it locked down.”
Melendez relented, drifting toward the kitchen table.
“Fresh pot of the good stuff,” said Munoz, motioning toward the simple coffee maker on the counter. “Best I could do with the paper filter.”
“What’s Sanderson’s take on this?” asked Daniel.
“He’s concerned,” Munoz answered.
“Still? Does he know something we don’t?”
He was getting out of there as soon as Jessica started coming around. Munoz could read it on his face.
OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5) Page 16
