James Acton 01 - The Protocol (9 page)

Did he really think he’d get away with that?

“Relay the coordinates to Bravo Team Phoenix and have them intercept the package,” ordered Dawson. “Send Bravo’s Seven and Eight to intercept Acton when he arrives in New York. I want him eliminated.”

Acton awoke as the flight began its descent into New York. He tried to stretch his arms and legs in the cramped seating without much success. Putting his shoes back on, having removed them shortly after takeoff, he gave his lap belt a tug. If they hadn’t found the package he sent then he should be okay getting off the flight. His heart hammered against his ribs, adrenaline rushing through his veins as he realized if his ploy hadn’t worked, he was most likely about to die.

“Control to Bravo One.” Dawson was watching feed from the airport security cameras when the call came in.

“Bravo One here, go ahead, Control.”

“We have a possible security breach on this end that needs to be taken care of,” said the voice. “Send one of your men to Washington immediately, instructions have been sent via secure transmission. Control out.”

Dawson looked at Red who nodded. “Encrypted packet just arrived for you, Sergeant Major.” He brought up the transmission on his laptop and spun it toward his commander. Dawson entered his password and read the file.

“Fuck me.”

Phoenix, Arizona

Jimmy gunned the motor and cut in front of the FedEx van their new orders had sent them to intercept. He slammed his brakes on, blocking their target, as the other three Bravo Team members jumped out with weapons drawn, pointing them at the panicked driver.

“Get out of the truck!” ordered Niner, tapping his gun on the window. The driver raised his hands and climbed out, his blue shorts revealing his clearly shaking knees. “Open the back!” The driver shuffled sideways to the back, never taking his eyes off the gun pointed at his head. He groped for the handle and, when he found it, twisted it then pulled the door up, revealing hundreds of packages inside. “We’re looking for this package number,” said Niner as he handed him a tracking number. The driver nodded, still shaking, and climbed into the back of the truck. A minute later he found the package and handed it to Niner.

Niner double-checked the tracking number and the information shown on the package. Acton’s name was written clearly on the label. Looking back at the trembling driver, he raised his weapon and cold-cocked him on the side of his head, rendering him unconscious. He returned to the SUV, handing the package to Marco.

Acton exited the plane and headed for the car rental desk. He scanned the area for a tail, but couldn’t spot anyone. He knew, though, that they could be monitoring him electronically as well. He just hoped they would let him go if they didn’t have the skull. His heart rate increased again as the panic set in.
Calm down!

“Bravo Nine to Bravo Command, we have recovered the item.”

Dawson slammed the table with his hand. “Yes!”

Red smiled as he punched up the security cameras in LaGuardia. A few minutes later, Acton exited the boarding area.

“I have Acton exiting his flight now.” Red pointed at the screen.

Dawson switched his comm over to his airport team. “Do you have him?”

“Yes, Bravo Command, we have him sighted. Moving into position.”

“Roger that. Eliminate the subject. Bravo Command out.”

Jimmy had put several miles between them and the FedEx truck when Marco ordered him to pull into an area of warehouses and stop. “Everyone out, I have to confirm the contents.” The other team members exited the Escalade, leaving Marco alone.

Marco had been cleared to open the package by Big Dog. As the other team members milled about outside the SUV, he carefully examined the package for booby traps, then used his utility knife to cut open the packing tape that encased the plain brown box. Opening the top he removed the packing material inside. His heart pounded with the excitement of finally finding out what this entire mission had been about.
What was worth killing all those people for?
He didn’t know what to expect, but when he had removed enough of the packing material to reveal the item he shook his head in disbelief.
Certainly not that!

Clint and Atlas fell in behind Acton. When Clint had been assigned this mission he had relished in the thought of killing the man who had taken his friend. Spaz had been the one to give him his nickname when he had joined the unit. Both he and Spaz loved old movies, Spaz always acting out parts with Clint doing incredibly bad impressions of the actors' voices. One of his worst being Dirty Harry. He smiled at the memory then frowned.
This is for you, buddy.

Both were dressed in suits with long overcoats. Clint had his hands in both pockets, the bulge from his silencer-tipped weapon now pointing at the target. They quickened their pace to close the distance between them and their target. As they did, a man crossed in front of them pulling a carry on and staring at a map of the airport. Atlas shoved him out of the way as they stumbled over his case.

Acton turned to see the commotion behind him. One man was on his knees, a case he had been dragging knocked over on the floor. Two men were stepping over the man and looking directly at him. He glanced down and saw one of them had their hand in their pocket, something metallic showing.
A gun!
Acton picked up his pace, his heart pumping as if he were running a marathon.

“Bravo Nine to Bravo Command!”

“Bravo Command here, go ahead, Bravo Nine.”

“Bravo Command, there’s nothing but rocks in the package!”

Dawson ripped the headset off Red’s head and raised it to his face. “Bravo Nine, confirm your last transmission!”

“Bravo Command, it’s a bunch of rocks,” repeated Niner. “It must be a decoy!”

Dawson cursed then snapped his fingers at Red. “Get me LaGuardia!”

The two Bravo Team members were about three feet behind Acton. Clint was about to fire, his finger slowly squeezing the trigger.

“Abort, abort, abort!” came the voice through the comm system ear buds. “Do not eliminate the target!”

Both men broke away in separate directions, aborting their mission as ordered. Clint cursed to himself, pissed at not getting to exact his revenge.

Acton was now panicked and about to run. Looking again over his shoulder, he saw that both men were gone. He stopped and looked around. They were nowhere to be seen. Had he imagined it?
No, that was definitely a gun.
He smiled.
And they definitely don’t have the skull.
So far, his plan was working.

“The fucker, he must have sent a second package,” said Dawson, respect for his adversary ratcheting up a notch. “Run a check, see if you can find it then I want Atlas on a flight to Washington.” Dawson sat down and connected to Control to relay the news.

17
^th
Street, Washington, DC

After what had seemed an endless day, Billy was finally heading home. His chest was still tight, his palms sweating as he walked toward his apartment from the corner store where he had grabbed a microwaveable hoagie.
I shouldn’t have seen that!
Hearing footsteps behind him, he looked back over his shoulder. He could see a man walking behind him who seemed to be looking down the street, perhaps for a cab. He quickened his pace.

The footsteps quickened their pace as well. His heart felt like it would pound out of his chest. He started to run. Dodging into an alleyway, he ran toward the other end. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the man follow him into the alleyway. His attention on the man behind him, he didn’t notice the discarded tire in front of him until he tripped over it, landing on the ground.

As he scrambled to get up, he was hauled to his feet and spun around, his back facing the man. In one swift motion the man covered his mouth and pulled his head back, stifling his scream. Something moved across his throat then a warm liquid pulsed down his neck onto his chest. It took a moment before the pain registered and he realized that his own blood was pouring from his now slit throat.

The man threw him to the ground and, as Billy lay there bleeding out, he stared helplessly as the man took his wallet, keys and watch. Just before he lost consciousness he heard the man say something.

“Bravo Seven to Bravo Command, the target has been eliminated.”

New York City, New York

Milton exited his cab on 71
^st
Street, his head hunkered down behind the collar of his jacket. He hurried into Central Park and headed to Strawberry Fields. He glanced behind him then broke into a run. He had flown out that afternoon for New York after delivering the eulogy, and had been traveling around the city by cab, subway and foot, just in case he was being followed. His paranoia had become so intense he was now suspicious of everyone. His chest was pounding and he could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins, fueling his panic further. Forcing himself to breathe deeply, he slowly calmed down. He eased to a trot then eventually a brisk walk, trying to catch his breath, cursing his desk job.

Remember where we crammed for English Lit finals? Can you meet me there?

Almost twenty years ago, as a grad student, he had taken Acton, a promising sophomore, under his wing. They had been virtually inseparable ever since. They’d jog through the park almost every morning and engage in deep philosophical discussions while sitting on the benches or lying in the various green spaces.

Strawberry Fields lay in the most beautiful part of Central Park. He had discovered it before it became known as that, before Ed Koch dedicated it to John Lennon, before its upgrade, and before people flocked to it. By the time he’d met Acton, that had died down and it became their escape from the throngs that were New York City.

When he had offered Acton a teaching position at the college four years ago, he had been afraid it would affect their relationship, but it hadn’t. Yes, they had their fights, some loud ones – including the one preceding his latest expedition – but those had only served to strengthen their friendship. Acton was a well-respected archaeologist and the alumni loved him. He had ended up being perfect for the position.

Twenty years ago I quizzed him for his English Lit finals on that bench.

He came to an abrupt stop and looked around again. No one.
Including Jim.
He eyed the bench where they had sat that night. His Blackberry went off, sending his pulse racing again.

Look under the bench.

Inching toward the bench, he sat. He tried to casually reach under it with his left hand and feel around. Almost immediately he felt something taped underneath. It came free with a little effort. He hid it in his hand and brought it up, palm inward, shielding it from view of anyone. He crossed his legs and, with his leg now blocking his hand from view, turned it over to see what had been underneath the bench.

A cell phone!

He nearly jumped out of his skin as it vibrated in his hand. Flipping it open, he brought it to his ear as casually as his shaking hands could manage.

“Don’t say anything, you’re being watched,” said the voice. Milton looked around but couldn’t see his friend. “Go and visit our angel, you know where she is, and wait for me to call you there. Cough if you understand.”

He coughed.

“Okay, see you soon my friend.” The line went dead.

Milton got up and walked east, deeper into the park, toward Bethesda Terrace. His heart drummed in his chest and blood rushed through his ears.
Calm down. Inhale. Exhale.
He tried to ignore the people around him, but he couldn’t help wondering which ones might be following him.

17
^th
Street, Washington, DC

“What have we got?” asked Detective Raymond Wheeler of his partner, Detective Justin Schultz, as he ducked under the yellow police tape. Wheeler’s slightly portly figure wasn’t the model of police fitness, but twenty-five years on the force quite often led to that, especially since he hadn’t been chasing perps in over ten. Detective work was less physically challenging, but a hell of a lot more interesting. He’d been partnered with Schultz for most of his time as a detective and, much to his chagrin, Schultz had managed to avoid the spare tire.

“One DB, probably a mugging,” said the medical examiner. “I just got here. I’ll know more when I get a look at him.”

“Mugging, eh?” Wheeler knelt down and lifted a corner of the sheet draped over the body. “Any ID?”

“No, no wallet, keys or watch,” replied an officer.

Schultz turned to the officer. “You were first on the scene?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If this is a mugging, then why was this made a priority homicide call?” asked Wheeler.

“Not by me,” said the ME. “That was our overzealous friend here.” He jabbed his thumb at the officer behind him.

Wheeler looked at him. “Well? Are you just wasting my time or are you going to speak up for yourself?”

The young officer looked nervous. “Well, sir, it’s like this. I’m ex-army, did two tours in Iraq, and, well, this doesn’t look like a mugging to me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Look at the cut, sir,” he said. “That’s text book, exactly the way we were trained to take someone out from behind, with no noise.”

Wheeler approached the body and pulled aside the sheet. He looked closely at the wound.
The kid’s right. This was no mugging.
He looked at the ME. “What do you think?”

The ME knelt down and examined the wound. “Could be. He moves to the top of my list. I’ll contact you as soon as I know more, probably a couple of hours.”

“Run his prints right away, too. I want to know who this kid is.”