The Circle of Eight (22 page)

“There’s Mickey,” said Red, pointing. Dawson pulled over
and the side door slid open. Mickey jumped in and Dawson gunned it as Niner
closed the door.

“Wings?” asked Dawson.

Mickey leaned forward between the two front seats.
“Already returned the chopper and on his way back to paradise.”

“Good. You guys change back to civie clothes,” said
Dawson as he made another turn, easing off the accelerator now that they were
far enough away. Grunts and curses from the back made him smile as the men
changed their clothes, packing their gear in large duffel bags.

Spock seemed the most efficient.

“Whenever you’re ready, BD,” he said. Dawson pulled into
a parking spot and stripped out of the most obvious gear, tossing it into the
back for Niner and Mickey to deal with. When he wouldn’t attract attention, he
stepped out of the vehicle and switched off with Spock, the van underway
moments later as Dawson continued to change along with Red.

“BD, put on your comm, Wings says we’ve got a problem.”

Niner handed him his headset and mike. Dawson inserted
the earpiece and held the mike up to his mouth.

“This is Bravo One, go ahead.”

“Bravo One, we’ve got a problem. I just reached our
rendezvous point and it’s crawling with police, over.”

“Are you clear?”

“Yeah, I was able to duck down an alleyway. It looks
like they hit our rooms.”

“Any sign of the others?”

“Negative. Suggest you avoid this area.”

“Understood. Spock, take us one block south. Wings, meet
us there.”

“Roger that. ETA?”

“Three minutes,” said Spock as he eyed the GPS mounted
on the dash. Red reached forward and reprogrammed it to the next street just in
case there were any one way surprises, and they drove the rest of the way in
silence.

“You’re gonna want to see this,” said Niner, handing a
tablet computer to Dawson as Spock pointed.

“There’s Wings.”

He pulled to the side, Wings climbing into the vacant
passenger seat, motioning for Spock to move on.

Dawson eyed the footage of the camera they had planted,
its feed transmitted and stored on a secure Internet site. It showed the
professors on a couch, Jimmy sleeping, Jagger on watch, then suddenly the door
bursting open and police rushing in. They were led out in handcuffs, the
remaining footage of no concern.

“Shit!” cursed Dawson, handing the tablet back to Niner.
“They’ve been arrested.”

“Now what?” asked Niner.

“Now I call in another favor.”

The Wellington Hospital, London, England

Interpol Special Agent Hugh Reading sat at the bedside of his former
Scotland Yard partner, Detective Inspector Martin Chaney. He had been shot
almost two months ago in Egypt when Professor Palmer’s dig site had been
attacked. It was supposed to have been a vacation, friends joined together in
the camaraderie of doing something with your hands other than firing a weapon.

It had been anything but.

And now his friend battled for his life, stuck in a coma
the doctors said he may come out of today, or never.

When his job didn’t take him out of the city or out of
the country, Reading tried to visit his friend every day. He’d read him the
paper, insult his favorite football club, and relay emails from the two
professors, and on the bad days, he’d curse him out for being so stubborn.
Today was a bad day.

“Listen you selfish bastard, if you don’t snap out of
this right now, I’m not coming back. I’m sick and tired of wasting my time
hanging around having one way conversations and reading out loud as if to a
three year old. Now wake up you prick!”

He waited, watching for an eye to flicker, a lip to curl,
a finger to twitch.

Nothing.

He sighed.

“Don’t worry you selfish prat, I’ll be back tomorrow.”
He yawned. “Perhaps at a better hour.” It was after two in the morning and he
was exhausted but restless, this late hour visit designed to make him tired, entertained
by the staff here only because he was a charmer who brought coffees and
biscuits for the nurses.

It had worked.

He gave his friend a pat on the shoulder, then headed
for the door. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and didn’t
recognize the number, but recognized the country code.

Switzerland.

Who the blazes do I know in Switzerland?

He took the call.

“Reading.”

“Hello Special Agent. This is Agent White. We met in
London and recently in Egypt. Do you remember me?”

Reading didn’t recognize the voice at first, but with
all the cloak and dagger those few words exuded, he quickly realized it was the
head of the Delta Force unit that had tried to kill him a few years ago. Unlike
Jim who had chosen to forgive them, he hadn’t. He didn’t hold a grudge per se,
but he wasn’t willing to completely let them off the hook. He understood  they
were following orders, but that excuse had been used too often in history. He
accepted that they were told the people they were after were identified as terrorists,
and after 9/11 and England’s own 7/7 everyone was paranoid.

But it was their attack on Scotland Yard that he
couldn’t forgive. Good men had died that day, but even then he had to give them
credit. They hadn’t killed any of his fellow officers until one of their own
had been killed.

Argh! It’s so bloody convoluted
!

He had been trying to push it out of his head since the
day it had happened without much success. And today apparently he was going to
be reminded of those events.

“Yes, I remember.”

“Good. We have a problem I can’t get into over the
phone, however two of my friends, and two of yours, were just arrested in
Geneva. We need your help.”

“Two Professors I assume?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you back in one hour at this number.”

“Thank you, Special Agent.”

The call ended and Reading turned back to his silent
partner.

“Back into the thick of it, my friend,” he said, then
walked out the door.

And a finger twitched.

Unknown Location

“No! No! No! No! No!” sobbed Acton, his voice fading as his head
dropped to his heaving chest, his sobs harder than anything he could remember,
worse even than the sight of his students massacred in Peru only days before he
had met the love of his life. It was overwhelming, it was heartbreaking, it was
more than he could take. Their plans, their future, all gone. They were going
to be married, build a family together. And now it was all gone.

And it was his fault.

If he hadn’t of insisted on coming to Geneva to help the
Delta Team, she’d still be alive, and their future plans would still be intact.

He felt his stomach wretch and he turned to the side,
vomiting on the floor, the harsh liquid burning his mouth and esophagus as his
sobs continued. He spat to clear his mouth then stared into the darkness.

“You’ll pay, you bastards! You’ll all pay!”

The rage began to build, to take over, to fill him with
a warmth as he imagined gutting those responsible.

They’re all dead. If it isn’t me, the Delta guys will
finish the job.

Suddenly the light went out.

He bit his lip, trying to ease his sobbing, and
listened.

Nothing.

He peered into the darkness but could see only black,
telltale random dots of grey, almost like static, filling his field of vision as
his eyes tried to make sense of what it was seeing, which was nothing, there
being no light whatsoever. The pounding in his ears overwhelmed any sound that
might be present, so he closed his eyes and busied himself with trying to
control his racing heart. For there was one thing that he was determined to
prevent, and that was being killed before he avenged his fiancée.

A foot scraped behind him, then footsteps, slow and
deliberate, crossed the floor to his right, seemingly in a semi-circle, coming
to rest in front of him, perhaps where Laura had been.

“Who’s there?” he asked, his voice tinted with hatred,
soaked with sorrow.

No response.

“I’m going to kill you for what you’ve done.”

The footsteps retreated, then the sound of a door
opening, a hint of light silhouetting a robed figure.

“Not, I think, today, Professor Acton.”

The door closed with a click that echoed through the
room. He listened again. Footsteps retreated from the door, then nothing. He
shook in his chair, straining at his bonds, but again, nothing.

It’s hopeless.

He forced himself to take deep, slow breaths, calming
himself. He had to think, otherwise he’d just be wasting time and energy. With
his eyes closed, he sucked in a breath through his nose, down into his stomach,
and held it, the pounding in his ears slight now compared to moments before.
The breath escaped through his mouth, and he repeated the process, his mind
beginning to work the problem.

He was bound to a chair by the ankles, his hands bound
behind his back, in a completely dark room. Whether he was alone or not, he did
not know, and whether or not there were cameras for surveillance, he did not
know. As well, there could be a guard on the other side of the door. He
frowned. He didn’t even know if there was one door or ten.

Work the problem.

How many doors, guards or eyes on the room were
irrelevant. He had to first free himself of his bonds. His hands were too
tight, so there was no point in cutting himself further. His feet however were
individually bound to the chair legs. If he could free himself of the chair,
he’d be able to walk.

He tried to stand.

No luck. His hands were bound behind him, but were
tugging on something else, probably one of the spindles he could feel against
his back. He leaned forward and to the left, hard, trying to put all the weight
on the one leg.

Nothing.

He repeated it with the right front leg, leaning as far
over as he could, lifting his feet and toes as much as possible.

He felt it give slightly.

He sat back down on all four legs, repositioning himself
to the front right as much as he could, then pushed himself up, dropping all
the weight he could on the one leg.

It creaked, then suddenly snapped, sending him tumbling
to the floor. He closes his eyes and turned his head before smacking face first
into the cold, hard floor.

With one free foot.

With his right foot free, he was able to stand a bit
more and his left foot popped free, the zip tie sliding off the leg. This left
him hunched over with a chair still attached to his back, but at least he was
slightly mobile. He stopped to listen, and there was no evidence of anyone
coming to stop him.

Perhaps I’m not being watched.

Or they were just laughing since he had in fact
accomplished little.

Feet freed. One problem down.

Next problem. Free self from chair.

His hands were tightly tied and attached to probably a
single spindle. The chair felt fairly solid, so trying to break the spindle was
out of the question, he’d simply slice his wrists open further. Separating the
spindle from the top of the chair would be difficult since he had no leverage
there, but the bottom might be possible. He stood up as straight as he could,
pushing against the seat of the chair with his legs.

It gave a little.

Or perhaps it was his imagination.

He tried again but too much of the pressure was
transferring to his wrists. He stopped, still hunched, part of him missing that
fourth leg.

Pain?

He nodded to himself. He had to risk it, there was no
other choice. He balanced on the front left leg, and with some effort it
snapped as the chair and he fell to the side and on the floor, wincing as he
barely avoided bouncing his head off the unforgiving surface. He rolled over
then pushed himself to his feet, his muscles and wrists screaming in agony.
Stumbling forward, he tried to maintain a straight line until he felt himself
run into something. Exploring it with his shoulder, he determined it had to be
the wall. Turning around and placing the rear chair legs against it, he walked
forward ten paces then took a deep breath.

Now or never!

He rushed backward, still hunched over so the legs were
at about a sixty degree angle with the floor, then suddenly felt the jarring
impact of wood against stone as he pulled forward with his upper body and
pushed back with his legs, the momentum carrying him hard into the wall.

There was a snapping sound as the rear legs gave way.

He came to rest against the wall, gasping for breath as
he now sat attached to a chair with no legs, held on only by a zip tie to a
single spindle.

And still as uselessly trapped as he was before this all
started.

He slid down the wall, his muscles screaming for a rest,
when he felt his wrists slide up the spindle toward the top of the chair. He
pushed himself against the wall, his back now free, and stopped his descent.
Pushing himself back up, he lifted his right foot, bending his knees as tightly
as he could, leaning forward. He felt the sole of his shoe grip on the seat of
the chair and he stopped, catching his breath as he tried to balance on one
foot.

He sucked in a deep breath then pushed back as hard as
he could with his upper body, putting as much pressure as he could on the back
of the chair, while pushing down with his right leg. He could feel the sweat
popping from his pores, his muscles screaming, and nothing happening with the
chair.

He groaned in agony, his body about to give up when
finally a splintering sound erupted from the chair behind him sending a surge
of hope through him as a second spurt of energy from his emergency reserve was
released.