by Jack Bowie
The paramedics arrived with a stretcher just as Fowler crossed the fire line. Slattery saw that the body was that of a woman.
“Walker?” he shouted to Fowler as the ex-cop dropped the body onto the litter.
“I guess,” Fowler replied. “I saw her staggering down the alley.”
“Where’s Braxton?”
Walker tried to sit up. “Back . . . inside.” Her voice was barely audible.
A tall, bleached-blonde EMT eased Walker back down. He looked like an over-the-hill surfer. “You’ve got to take it easy,” he said. “And you guys need to give us some room.”
The other paramedic slipped a plastic mask over Walker’s face and connected it to a small oxygen bottle. Then they began rolling their patient back to the ambulance.
Slattery stationed himself by the side of the stretcher. “Why did Braxton go back in?” He leaned forward, placing his ear as close to the mask as he could.
“Don’t . . . know.”
“What happened in there? Who did this?”
“Not . . . Venton . . . Ben . . . Lawson.”
Slattery looked over to Fowler. He mouthed, “Ben Lawson?” Fowler shook his head.
“Was anyone else there?” Slattery pressed. “Another man?”
“Not . . . there,” she replied. “Just . . . Lawson.”
“But . . .”
“That’s all sir,” the paramedic said, pushing Slattery away from the gurney. “We’ve got to get her to the hospital.” They rolled her into the ambulance, jumped inside, and slammed the doors. Slattery watched helplessly as the vehicle sped off into the night.
“Where is he, Sam?” Slattery demanded. “Why the hell did he go back in there?”
Fowler shook his head again and turned back to face the burning building.
“Agent Slattery?” The tinny voice came from his walkie-talkie.
“This is Slattery,” he said into the mouthpiece.
“Captain Morales. Alameda Fire Department. I think we’ve found your man. Around back.”
Slattery and Fowler glanced at each other and took off in a run.
* * *
The smoke was impenetrable and Braxton’s eyes were teared so heavily it was like looking through a fishbowl. He felt his way up the stairway to the second floor. Parts of the roof had already collapsed and streams of frigid water fell from the night sky. When they hit the red-hot metal of the railings, geysers of steam shot in all directions. The scene was like something out of Dante.
He ripped off the sweater Walker had given him and stuck it under one of the waterfalls. After wringing it out, he wrapped it over his mouth and nose and gingerly stepped into the upstairs hallway.
Following the metal skeleton that was all that was left of the interior walls, Braxton made it down to the first turn in the corridor. He took a step around the corner, but pulled back when his shoe disappeared into the floor. A burst of flame erupted from where his foot had been, throwing him back from a now-gaping hole that opened into the depths.
He backtracked to the stairway and took the hall in the other direction, hoping there was still a solid passage to the cafeteria. He heard shouts from outside, and prayed that Walker had found someone to tend to her wounds.
As far as he could tell, there was still no one else inside the building. The fire crews knew better than to be running through a burning building. What was wrong with him? Going through this place was like navigating a gauntlet of death. If he didn’t get out soon, all that would be left would be a pile of ashes.
The next turn was still passable and he continued on his circle. Three scorching corridors and one dead end later, he found himself back in the room with Venton.
The body of the entrepreneur still swung from the water pipe. Braxton reached up and pulled the drive from Venton’s pocket.
It had taken only a second to get the stick. But did he still have time to escape? He couldn’t go back to the stairway again. The hallways would be impassable.
He felt the heat of the fire flowing through the blown-out windows. Out to the cool night air. Did he dare try to escape that way?
It was only the second floor. And it was the only way out.
He yanked his sweater back over his head, pulled his hands into the sleeves, and knocked out the remaining glass. Then he grabbed the frame and crawled over the edge.
Somewhere below him was the ground and safety. The only way to get there was one step at a time. Anything else was suicide.
He dug the soles of his shoes into the joints between the bricks. Still clinging to the frame with his right hand, he reached down with his left to get another handhold. He grabbed a brick face, released his right, and repeated the movement.
With both hands clutching the rough surfaces, he slipped his feet down. A few seconds of searching and they caught. He carefully shifted his weight off his hands. The footholds were solid.
As he again reached down, he heard a loud “Crack” and looked up. The frame of the window suddenly broke free and fell toward him. He ducked his head, pressing his body as close to the wall as he could, but a corner of the heavy metal skeleton struck his shoulder. The impact broke his handholds and he tumbled backwards. He realized it was his end, but perhaps the disk in his pocket could still save Goddard and the others.
He hit the ground with a crushing thud, but it gave way under him, like when he was ten and had broken his bed playing Superman. When he finally stopped falling, he opened his eyes, but instead of his mother he saw a circle of charcoal-streaked faces. They were holding a strangely colored canvas quilt.
“I’ve got it,” he cried as the darkness closed in. “I’ve got it.”
Epilogue
Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia
Monday, one week later, 5:00 p.m.
“In conclusion, let me assure you all that this administration stands ready to protect American citizens anywhere in the world, and we will never cease our pursuit of those who would attempt to usurp our hard won freedoms.
“And on a more personal note, I must regretfully report that I have accepted the resignation of Director of National Intelligence General Steven Carlson. He has decided to return to his home state of Colorado to attend to personal matters. General Carlson has served this country gallantly for over thirty-five years. I know I join all Americans in thanking him for his many contributions and wishing him well in the future.”
Slattery flicked off the remote control and tossed it on his desk.
“I can’t take any more of that crap about Carlson,” he said to Ikedo. “But Matthews looks pretty good already, don’t you think?”
“The President sure as hell knows how to deliver a speech,” Ikedo replied. “I can’t say I agree with everything Matthews has done, but he sure can rally the troops when he wants to.”
“That’s the first requirement for a politician. If he can’t get the people moving, he isn’t worth a damn.”
“All that flowery rhetoric about justice, though. Where’s the justice for what Robinson did? He’s back at his old job, playing the same old games. What the hell will he do next?”
“I doubt any of them care, Manny. By decoding Lawson’s disk, he saved the lives of a lot of very important people. He cut a deal, that’s all. It happens all the time. You know that. But I bet internal security will keep him on a very short leash.”
“Not short enough for me. I’d rather that leash was a noose. But I don’t guess anyone asked my opinion did they? Anything new on Singer?”
“We’re still getting leads. Mary Ellen is coordinating the domestic search. Interpol reported a possible sighting in Madrid. Complete with a cast on his right hand. But it dried up.”
“If he’s in Europe, Interpol should be able to find him. They’ve got agents all over the continent.”
Slattery thought back to his days at the Farm with Singer. He knew the man would not be heard from again. Until the next assignment. “Let’s hope so, Manny.”
“Yeah.
But hey, I hear congratulations are in order. New head of the Agency’s Counter-Terrorism Center. It sounds like a real plum.”
“Just another example of how no good deed goes unpunished. McLaine retired and I got the bullet. Look at these files.” He swung his arm over stacks of folders covering his desk. “Beth can’t believe I accepted it. Can I twist your arm to help me out again?”
Ikedo suddenly dropped his head and began shifting from one side to the other. Slattery knew something bad was about to happen.
“I’d really like to, Roger, but I applied for a new slot that just opened up. Special Liaison Agent to the FBI Counterterrorism Division. I thought it would look good on my resume to get some experience outside the Agency. Do you think I’ve got a chance for it?”
Slattery leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on the top of his desk, and clasped his hands behind his head. A huge grin lit up the normally somber face.
“A chance, Manny? I doubt you have anything to worry about.”
* * *
On the opposite coast, another group was also watching the President address the nation.
“Well, you did it, Adam,” Fowler said, setting the TV remote onto the bedside table. “I never thought you were gonna get out of that inferno.”
Braxton lay back in the hospital bed, his arms and legs still bandaged from serious, but not life-threatening, first degree burns.
“There were moments I had some doubts myself, Sam. It sure was good to see your ugly face.”
“He was like an angel,” Walker added, giving the huge black man a big hug. “I didn’t know where I was, and you had left me,” she continued, looking back to the bed, “when this noble warrior came out of the night, took me in his arms, and led me to safety.”
“Why gosh, ma’am,” Fowler said with a wide grin. “Just save that speech for my wife, Sydney. I’ll need the help when I finally get home. She wasn’t all that thrilled when I took off in the middle of the night.”
“I’d be happy to,” Walker replied, “but I may need some help myself. I was already in the doghouse at DIA and this excursion to the West Coast really pissed them off. I think there’s about to be a dramatic change in my military status.”
“Did Wheeler say anything about your job?” Braxton asked.
The mysterious Mr. Wheeler from the Justice Department had appeared five days before, looking exactly as he had that horrific night last year at FBI Headquarters, and secured signatures from all three of them on a new National Security Confidentiality Agreement. He had saved his best threats for Braxton, but his diatribe had been cut short when the duty nurse ejected him from the hospital room after Braxton’s heart rate monitor had exploded.
“Not very much. Just that I need to report to the Pentagon as soon as I’m released from the hospital. I’ve been milking my stay here about as long as I can.”
Braxton pushed himself a little higher in the bed. “Let me give you a piece of advice, Sydney. You have knowledge a lot of people will never want to see the light of day. Things your bosses don’t even know. Trust me, this is something you can use.”
Walker’s jaw dropped.
“Nicely, of course,” Braxton added.
“Of course,” Walker finally responded.
“Speaking of secrets,” Braxton continued, “NSA must have cracked the formula on Lawson’s zip drive. It’s only been seven days and the President looked nearly normal.”
“Seems so,” Fowler answered. “I tried to get details out of Roger, but he hasn’t been very talkative about what happened. I did hear there were problems decoding it.”
“Nothing we’ll ever find out about, I’m sure,” Walker said. “I’ve been meaning to ask, Adam, is your friend Susan okay?”
Braxton shared a knowing glance with Fowler. His face flushed despite the innocence of the question.
“Susan? Yes, she’s fine, thank you. A DoD doc came by and gave her the antibiotic three days ago. She sounds pretty good.”
Walker smiled at him. Her forehead sported an olive drab Band-Aid, and her left hand was bandaged from minor burns, but she still looked incredibly attractive.
“You should be very proud, Adam,” she said. “You found Megan’s killer, and you saved all those people, including Susan. It was very brave.”
“We did that, Sydney. I needed you and you were there.”
Braxton shifted in the starchy bed, trying to find a position that didn’t make his itching worse. Why are hospital beds so damned uncomfortable?
“Is anything wrong?” Walker asked. “Can I get you something?”
“Can you pull some strings and get me out of here? I need to get back to work. And I’ve had enough of doctors and hospitals for a lifetime.”
* * *
They had gathered in a small coffee shop on Ludwig Strasse just outside of Darmstadt. The air was sharp and cool. A perfect background for their important discussion.
“Is good to see you again, Wilhelm,” the striking blond woman said. “How is Frankfurt?”
“Worsening every day, Ingrid,” replied a tall, muscular man. “Our unions have become lackeys of the new industrialists. They are destroying our Socialist State. The rights we have worked so hard to earn.”
“It is the same in Kassel,” Ingrid continued, sipping her latte. “No one remembers. They think only of their own jobs. The layoffs continue. As if we were replaceable American workers.”
“Our own politicians turn their backs on us,” Wilhelm added. “They give in to the French and the Spanish. Can you imagine? When have they ever helped us? Now this abominable Union and its false currency. What will become of us?”
“These are difficult times,” a smaller, blue-eyed man said. “The people of Wiesbaden are very anxious also.”
“It is those from the Middle East, Hermann,” replied Wilhelm. “They come in waves. Taking our jobs, turning their backs on those of us that have built our country.”
“Yes,” agreed Ingrid. “They see our success. But we cannot support the world’s misfits.”
“But what is there to do?” Hermann asked, a bandaged hand lifting his cup.
“I don’t know,” replied Wilhelm. “But we must respond. The other students are ready. It is only for the right leader that they look.”
“And that is you, Willy,” Ingrid said. “They all know your commitment.”
“As do we,” Hermann added. “Perhaps I could check with some of my friends. They might have some ideas. Be able to help.”
“You would do that for us?”
“Of course, Ingrid. I would see that as my contribution to the cause.”
“The Cause,” Wilhelm repeated. “Yes, around this name we will grow strong.”
It was Hesse, and he was Hermann.
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Finally, if you haven’t done so, check out the previous
Adam Braxton Thriller:
The Saracen Incident
Now keep reading for an excerpt from the next Adam Braxton adventure
The Langley Profile
coming in the Spring of 2018.
Chapter 1
Samar, Israel
Monday, 9:00 a.m.
Terry James didn’t realize today would make him famous. So far as he knew, it was just another day standing behind his video camera trying to make his subject look intelligent and not screw up.
“This is truly a historic moment for the Middle East,” gushed the freshly scrubbed and painted reporter. “A moment that uniquely defines the new sense o
f peace and humanity in the region. Here, deep in the Negev Desert, Crown Prince Faisal of Saudi Arabia is visiting a newly remodeled school serving the education needs of a small Israeli kibbutz just thirty kilometers north of the Saudi border. The excitement of the visit is clearly visible on the faces of the dedicated teachers and their students. The visit of the Crown Prince to this unique educational facility is a sign of true progress for all nations in this long-struggling part of the globe. For World News Today, this is Caren Rodriguez from Samar, Israel.”
The red light on the camera blinked off and Rodriguez dashed to the protection of their mobile van. “Christ, it’s hot,” she exclaimed as she threw open the door. “You’d think they’d pick friggin’ better weather for these damn events.” She disappeared into the air-conditioned interior.
James nodded supportively, fearing any lesser response would spawn another tirade by his new talking head. Rodriguez was attractive, of course; tall and slim with just enough chest and hips to make her a woman and not a child. Her shiny blond hair normally hung lightly around her shoulders, but with the heat, wind and blowing sand, she had taken her cameraman’s recommendation to tie it back in a small bun. Her dark brown eyes and high cheekbones made his shot angles easy. She was a natural beauty and even had a few real news instincts.
But her mouth was as dirty as any he had ever heard and her temper was as hot as the chili from her home state of Texas. A prep school and Ivy League background didn’t add to her humility. She was as spoiled as they came and didn’t care who knew it.
The network had balked at springing for airfare to Eilat, a popular resort just half an hour to the south at the tip of the Red Sea, so he had had to endure a four hour drive through the desert from Tel Aviv. Rodriguez had done nothing the whole trip but rave on about herself in her inane Southern drawl. It was all he could do to keep from smashing her face into the dashboard.
