13
Matt Burke:
“Where’s that satellite?!” I bitch into my link as Tomlinson and Cooper herd me with reasonable speed the long way around the block, trying to stay blended with the gravitating crowd. I get no useful answer. When we finally edge through to where we can see the shattered storefront again, the streets around it are being shut down. The local police have descended en masse, dropping barricade strips across all the through-streets to contain any escape traffic. That means we can’t get out, either.
Which is something Richards is currently having issue with, doing a puffed-up toe-to-toe with the ranking cops. This also explains the lack of chatter on the link: Richards doesn’t want us sharing in his little rant over jurisdiction, so he’s switched to a closed channel. Which is probably where Henderson and maybe Becker are too, trying to apply grease. I watch from a block-and-a-half away. Nothing seems to be happening very fast. I can hear Richards shouting from here.
I didn’t get a lot of it going in, but the apparent deal made with the local government pre-op did not cover blowing the guts out of a public eatery, especially with tourists in proximity. The Greek Coalition Liaison let us bring just enough manpower (which Richards doubled after the fact) to theoretically cover Grayman (though I get the distinct impression we failed to be specific about exactly what we were up to), and probably with a discretion clause. I doubt that anybody informed the local constabulary in advance, hence the apparent hot tempers and sharp gestures with the uniforms.
“Oh, this is gonna make the news…” I can hear Stamos sigh. He’d taken his bleeding face out of harm’s way—I can almost see him getting tended to across the block by one of the first paramedic teams onsite (if they think he’s more than just an unlucky bystander, they don’t seem to be making anything of it)—but he’s the first to see the newsnet crew that comes shoving through the crowd on foot (probably ran in from beyond the lockdown).
“Spin-able,” Cooper comments, trying to be positive. “Shit, we didn’t dex the place.”
“I don’t think the Greek Board of Tourism will be too happy about the cache of terrorist suicide vests going boom,” I have to say it. I expect that’s pretty much what Richards is getting about now—the locals seem to be tag-teaming him with the heated complaints. I almost feel sorry for him, but then I figure this is the karma he bought himself with the whole starched-uniform NATO posting, and I figure he’s more than used to it.
The rescue crews are leading a dozen or so apparent residents of the building out of the smoke to safety. No one looks hurt, just shaken up. I catch Richards looking them over as they pass down the street, just letting the local cops keep venting at him. I’m not sure if he thinks he’ll find Gray in there or he’s looking them over for potential Wabs. Either way, he doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for.
“Becker, where’s the satellite?”
“Nothing yet, sir,” he cuts in. I’d actually just been bitching out loud, thinking he’d gone offline. He sounds more than just a little shaken, and I remember Richards or Henderson bitching about him being online in the first place, so I figure this is the first time he’s played link monitor on a live shooter. And this one certainly didn’t go well.
“How is it possible that we tracked him from orbit all the way from Italy and halfway across the Grecian countryside, then lose him in two blocks?” I considered pulling that punch, but I’m not in the mood and I need the kid to focus.
“Optics were zoomed too tight to catch the sewer exit until you found the tunnel, Captain,” he excuses, but he’s pulling himself together quick. “We were watching for him to exit the building, not two streets over. I just ran a replay zoomed out—he didn’t come out that way, just tipped the cover to make you think he’d surfaced that way. That hole was at a T-junction—he could have kept going underground either way for blocks. We’re still reviewing the replay, sir.”
“And apparently we’re still not going anywhere.” Yes: all of our vehicles are inside the lockdown, which I’m guessing Richards hasn’t talked our way out of yet. He looks like a video-loop, having the same argument over and over with the same three cop officers.
“And stop calling me ‘sir.’” I add as an irritated afterthought. “You’re not government property.”
“Yes. Sorry… Captain…”
I turn away from the leading edge of the crowd, held back by a quickly spun tape-cordon and a handful of riot-armor. Cooper and Tomlinson follow like I’m in charge of them—or anything, for that matter.
“Can you get us a ride, Doc?”
“Working on it,” he comes back impressively quick. “Nearest green is at least an hour away, though. Wait…”
“What?”
“Turn around. Head back three blocks east. Right turn…” I think I can hear him giggling.
“What?”
“The Lexus,” he almost laughs it. “Grayman. He left the car! It’s outside the barricades. Probably figured we’d be all over it.”
I’m jogging and giggling almost as stupidly as he is, with my two adopted wingmen trailing behind.
“I doubt he left us the key,” Cooper criticizes.
“He didn’t,” Becker clarifies with definite satisfaction. “But we don’t need it. Datascan hacked the OnStar codes. It’s already warm.”
“I owe you beer.” And I do: the car is open and already running when we get there. We’re far enough from the excitement to not draw attention. Better, the onboard GPS is plotting us a course around the roadblocks. And the seats feel sooo damn good, the way they auto-conform.
“So. Where are we going?” Tomlinson has to ruin it.
“Athens,” Becker comes back fast. Way too fast.
“Something else the Lieutenant Colonel forgot to tell me?”
“I’ll see if I can work you clearance and flash it to you on the way.”
“Forget to tell Richards,” I suggest. I get looks from my two shadows.
“Anybody else get out?” Cooper asks him.
“Just you three.”
Which makes me ranking officer on this little road trip, at least until Richards catches up. I’m hoping the kid can get me need-to-know by then. Though I doubt I’ll be very happy with what I find out.
The Lexus cruises smooth and silent, and we’re leaving the city behind for the rolling countryside. And I’ve almost let go of the worst of the blast-torn body images when I flash on Grayman’s little parting nod to me, back in the cafe, and I wonder just how thoroughly he’d had this all planned out, from the secret tunnel to ditching the satellite lock to sticking us in the traffic lockdown. He probably also knew just how much head-start he’d get while we did our little careful-dance, afraid of more vests.
Fucker.
At least I got the good car.
Grayman Book One: Acts of War Page 11
