The Widow's Strike (28 page)

I
checked my watch,
wondering how
long we should sit here waiting on the general to return. It had already been over six hours, and so far nothing. I wasn’t too concerned, though, since we’d had to figure out this location on a shoestring. If we actually did find him, it would be a damn miracle.

After hitting the United States in Detroit, I’d asked the Taskforce communications cell for a lock on the one number we had: the cell Ernie had dialed, then disconnected in Hong Kong. The analysts had said it was just a mistake, but it was all I had to pull. Of course, when I told the commo guys to search inside the United States, they’d balked.

The Taskforce was forbidden from interfering with domestic telephony, and because of my current status, I couldn’t get anyone to order them to execute. I was just lucky they hadn’t heard what had occurred in Macau and still thought I was the team leader.

After some back-and-forth, with me emphatically stating it was an Iranian phone, not one owned by a US citizen, they finally agreed to just check and see if it was active. They reported that it was inside the continental United States, but that was all I was going to get.

So I knew the guy was here, which meant the carrier was more than likely here as well, but I had no locational data. I had one other idea, but it required help from the hacking cell, and that was out of the question, since their activities were very, very sensitive. They wouldn’t operate on my say-so, but instead would require authorization from Kurt for any operation.

It was time to get a little devious.

I called our finance section, getting the warrant officer on the phone who dealt with background checks.

Every person who attempted to join the Taskforce went through a battery of psychological, physical, and historical screening. One part of that was a simple credit check, just like a bank ran, to ensure the prospective candidate wasn’t at risk of compromise from some foreign agency because he was about to go bankrupt. I hoped to use our access to credit databases to neck down the general.

Donny, the warrant officer, was immediately skeptical when I called, precisely because he never did anything operational. He was in that part of the Taskforce that simply kept the wheels turning—in this case, making sure we all got paid. He was also a friend whom I’d served with in a couple of different units—something I intended to leverage.

He said, “What’s this got to do with your pay?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m checking up on someone else.”

“Pike, I can’t go mucking around in someone’s credit history for personal reasons. Jesus. You trying to sell a car or something? Get ’em to pay cash.”

“It’s not for personal reasons. It’s much, much more than that. All I want you to do is run a rewards number and see if it’s tied to an active credit card being used in the United States.”

It was very, very tenuous, but I was hoping whoever had created the general’s alias credit cards had made the same mistake Jennifer had found in Singapore. Tenuous, but not crazy. More than likely, the same shop was cranking out documents for a whole host of nefarious missions, and cross-pollination would occur. I’d seen similar mistakes in our own intelligence community.

“Why are you asking me? We’ve got a section that does this for a living.”

“Donny, I can’t ask them. I don’t have time to go into it, but trust me; I’m not doing this for personal reasons. You know me. You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t critical.”

“Pike, you’re going to get us both fired!”

No. Just you. I’m already fired.

“Nobody will know. I promise if I get in trouble, I won’t bring you into it.”

For a second, all I heard was him breathing into the phone. Then he said, “Give me the damn number. I’ll call you back.”

I’d relayed the phone call to Jennifer, and we’d waited to see if we were going to buy a ticket home or a ticket to a potential bed-down location. Fifteen minutes later, we had an address to a hotel in Manhattan, and we’d caught the next flight out, feeling the elation of the hunt.

Now I felt nothing but boredom. Stakeouts ranked right up there with a trip to the dentist, especially when they began to drag on with no end in sight, made worse by the size of my measly little force. With only two people, we couldn’t do this twenty-four/seven. We certainly couldn’t execute follow-on operations, but that was okay.

Once I confirmed the presence of either the carrier or the general, I was going to call Kurt and pass the torch to a viable team, then fade into the background until this mess was all sorted out.

Jennifer and I had split up, with me in a deli a block over and her positioned in a coffee shop across the street from the hotel entrance. Since she was the only one who knew both the carrier and the general on sight, she was getting the brunt of the work. I’d done what I could to alter both her appearance and mine, using techniques the Taskforce had borrowed from Hollywood. I looked like a deranged stockbroker, with a cheap-ass wig, cotton in my cheeks, a three-day growth of beard, brown contact lenses, and a threadbare suit. I couldn’t have cared less what the people around me thought, though. The point wasn’t to pass myself off as legitimate. It was simply to
not
look like Pike Logan.

Jennifer cut a much better figure after a trip to a beauty salon for a style and color. Now with a short head of brown hair, all it took was a pair of nonprescription glasses and a pantsuit, and she really did blend in. The coffee shop advertised free Wi-Fi, so she’d purchased a cheap laptop to complete the deception.

I ordered lunch and was thinking about bringing Jennifer down the block to do the same when my phone vibrated. It was Jennifer, and I was sure she was going to ask for a break. I was wrong.

Without preamble, she said, “It’s the general. He’s walking up Forty-Fifth right now.”

I forgot my sandwich. “By himself?”

“Yeah. No carrier with him.”

But she’s close. Has to be close
.

My phone vibrated again with another call. I looked at the screen, then said, “Gotta go. Kurt’s calling on the other line. Keep eyes on to confirm or deny he goes into the hotel. I’ll call back in a second.”

I switched over, a little worried about what Kurt would say, but I had known the call was coming sooner or later. “Hey, sir. Listen, I’ve got eyes on Malik. I need to get a team to my location ASAP.”

He said, “In Manhattan?”

“Yeah . . . in Manhattan. You tracked our Taskforce phones?”

In my heart, I knew that was going to happen. In fact, wanted it to happen to leverage a quicker turnaround getting a team or law enforcement on site, but it still was disconcerting.

“I did. Pike—”

I cut him off before he went into some diatribe about following orders and bringing Jennifer in. “Sir, I need a Taskforce team on my trace right now. We can turn it over to FBI or NYPD later, but we’ve got to keep eyes on this guy. He’s the key to the entire mission. We let him go, we lose the carrier.”

“Pike, listen, I’m not the only guy tracking you. There’s a team headed your way right now. You need to get rid of the Taskforce phone and get out.”

What the hell is he talking about?
“Give them my number. Tell them to call. I’ll leave Jennifer on site and conduct a linkup.”

“Their target isn’t the general. It’s Jennifer. They’re locked on right now, probably listening to this call.”

Jesus
. “Why the hell did you do that? Call ’em off! Redirect them to the general. Come on, this is ridiculous. Jennifer isn’t sick.”

“I know. Pike, I can’t call them off. I resigned as commander.”

For a second, I was speechless, the words making absolutely no sense. It was like hearing someone say the earth was flat. Or the United States was responsible for 9/11. The Taskforce
was
Kurt Hale. He’d had the vision for it, fought to create it, and had been its only commander.

I found my voice. “What happened?”

“It’s too long to go into, but the Oversight Council needs an oversight council. You guys are the target. You need to get out right now.”

“Can’t you get George to back off?”

George Wolffe was the deputy commander and a personal friend of Kurt’s.

“He quit as well. Blaine is interim commander.”

Lieutenant Colonel Blaine Alexander was the officer responsible for Omega operations, meaning he showed up when it was time to execute a mission, after all the prep work had been done. He was a good man, but I knew he would just follow orders. Something of this magnitude was out of his league to question. The one thing he was very, very good at was the endgame. Hunting men.

I said, “Sir, you gotta get back in there. Don’t leave me hanging. Quitting is the easy out.”

He said, “I’ll do what I can. Ditch that phone and call me once you have another one.”

I started to respond and saw a Taskforce member walk outside the glass door, looking at something in a backpack. Tracking me.

I
hung up without
another word,
then powered down the phone and ripped out its battery, watching the Taskforce member like a hawk. He scratched his head and moved on down the street, still staring at whatever tracking device he’d brought.

Someone is on Jennifer as well.
I was in a catch-22. I couldn’t call her without getting this guy back on me, but if I didn’t, she was dead meat. I went to the glass door and glanced out. The tracker had continued down the street. I exited, knowing there were others around and that they knew me on sight. I prayed my improvised disguise would be enough to get me past.

Walking away from the hotel and Jennifer, I turned the corner and stopped a man talking on a cell. “I’ve got an emergency. I need your phone.”

He frowned at me and waved his arm, turning in a circle and still talking. I lightly slapped his head, causing him to pull the phone away and say, “What the hell is your problem?”

I snatched the cell out of his hand and said, “I asked nicely.”

He started shouting and I dialed Jennifer’s number, then held a finger in his face. He sputtered and began flapping his arms. Jennifer answered.

I said, “Get out. Turn your phone off right now. We’re being tracked. Meet me at our linkup. Thirty minutes.”

True to form, Jennifer assimilated everything I said and asked not a single question. I heard “Got it.” And she clicked off.

I handed the man his phone back, saying, “Thanks.”

He snatched it out of my hand and said, “You’re lucky I don’t kick your ass, MMA style.”

I rolled my eyes and tried to walk away. Which apparently gave the guy some confidence. He grabbed my arm and said, “Where you running to?”

I peeled his hand away and rotated it against the joint, bringing him to his knees, my eyes searching the crowd around me for real trouble. Seeing none, I focused back on him.

“Give me the damn phone.”

He squeaked and thrust it toward me. I took it, because I might actually need a cell phone in the next twenty minutes, and released his hand.

“I’m walking away now. You stand up, and I’m going to knock you out.”

He nodded.

“This thing have Facebook on it?”

He nodded again.

“When I’m done, I’ll update your status with its location.”

I hailed a cab and gave him directions. “Central Park Zoo, and don’t take the long way.”

Before we’d started our operation, Jennifer and I had agreed on a last-ditch meeting site should anything go wrong. Nothing different from what I did back in the old days of patrolling the woods. Plan a point to rally if we got hit and anyone was separated. In this case, I wanted a space that was easily located and in a crowded, public area. I’d picked the Central Park Zoo gift shop.

The cabby dropped me off at Fifth Avenue and East Sixty-Fourth, and I entered Central Park on the back side of the zoo. I stripped off the wig and spit out the cotton swelling my cheeks, looking for threats but seeing nothing but families. A map directed me to the “zootique” at the end of a paver-stone walkway, just past a building called the Arsenal.

It was small, and I quickly saw that I’d beaten Jennifer.
Or she’s been caught.
I went outside and glanced left, toward the direction of the zoo entrance, wondering if I should wait for the thirty minutes we’d agreed upon or get my ass into the fight.

I took four steps, and Jennifer came around the corner, glancing over her shoulder.

Before I could say a word, she said, “Turbo saw me leave the café. His element followed me. They couldn’t do anything because I was in the open, but they’re right behind me.”

Which means they’re boxing us in right now.
Turbo was a Taskforce team leader with whom Jennifer and I had had a run-in in the past, while Jennifer was attending Taskforce Assessment and Selection. Well, it was a little bit more than that. Jennifer had dislocated the shoulder of Radcliffe, his 2IC, and I’d kicked Turbo’s ass after the event was over. It was the worst team we could have chasing us. We weren’t going to get a lot of love out of this surveillance.

“Come on. Let’s get into the park. They won’t do anything inside with all the civilians around. We get them spread out, trying to cover that terrain, and we can lose them.”

We began walking through the zoo, headed to the exit leading into the park. I relayed everything I knew, which left Jennifer a little shocked.

“Maybe I should turn myself in. They’re wasting time on me. If I’m gone, they’ll refocus on the general.”

I said, “Screw that. Kurt Hale resigned over this, which means it’s something pretty damn bad.”

We speed-walked down one of the myriad paths crisscrossing the park, winding around a statue of an Alaskan sled dog, crossing under a bridge, and going uphill into the mall proper.

I saw a squad of police officers coming in from the west side and thought about going right over to them. Getting them involved just to keep the Taskforce team at bay. They would never risk compromise by a domestic operation in front of law enforcement.

We reached an outdoor amphitheater and I saw another squad, this time wearing SWAT gear, talking to two police officers mounted on horses. The sight caused my first trickle of alarm.
They’re looking for someone.

It couldn’t be us. It had to be a coincidence. But I hadn’t seen a single Taskforce member. They should have been around us in a surveillance box.
Unless they pulled off.

I stopped at a park bench and took out the phone I’d stolen, telling Jennifer to keep an eye on the cops. I initiated Google Maps and brought up Central Park, orienting myself, now looking for an escape route. Something that allowed taxis. The park was perfect for losing foot surveillance that was more concerned about compromise than stopping us, but it was a trap if somehow the Taskforce had brought the full power of law enforcement to bear.

Straight ahead, past the amphitheater, was Terrace Drive, which connected to Fifth Avenue to the right and Central Park West to the left. Hopefully, we could snag a taxi cutting through. Jennifer pulled my arm.

“Mounted police are eyeing us.”

I saw they had separated from the SWAT guys and were meandering south, one looking our way, talking into a radio, the other studying a piece of paper.
A picture.

“Come on. Walk slow enough to not draw attention.”

I was kicking myself for ditching the wig, but hopefully Jennifer’s new look would eliminate us as suspects. She appeared nothing like whatever photo they had.

We passed the amphitheater and the SWAT guys started moving our way. One said, “Sir, sir. Hold up please.”

I ignored him.

I said, “You think you can outrun these cops?”

Jennifer’s eyes widened, but she said, “Yeah, look at the kit they have on.”

“Get ready. We go straight ahead full bore, outdistance them, then cut out of the park before they can radio a search pattern. We get separated, we’ll meet at Starbucks in Grand Central Terminal. If I don’t show in two hours, get out and call Kurt. Get a status from him. Reassess and go from there.”

Jennifer reached down and pulled off the sensible office shoes she’d purchased, saying, “Is he on our side?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

The SWAT guys started walking toward us in a group, the mounted cops wheeling around. I heard one more shout and figured the game was up. No sense letting them get any closer.

“Go!”

Jennifer broke like a cheetah coming out of the grass, her long legs churning across the ground. Following right behind her, I saw the mounted officers spur their horses into a gallop, closing the distance.
Shit
.
Can’t outrun that.

I saw Terrace Drive to our front, a set of stairs leading under it. I shouted, “Down! Go down the stairs. Lose the horses!”

An NYPD van screeched to a halt on the bridge, more SWAT officers spilling out, all of them shouting.

Jennifer hit the stairs taking them three at a time, bounding down almost out of control. We reached the bottom and I could see a fountain ahead on a wide-open concrete pad about the size of a football field, a lake on the far side of it. No cover at all.
Bad choice.

Three beat cops rounded the corner of the tunnel just as Jennifer hit the bottom. One held up his hands, shouting, “Stop!” Jennifer slid low and swiped his legs out from under him, then sprang back to her feet. The two to his right drew their pistols and I threw myself sideways into them in a body block. We tumbled to the ground, and I rolled off and kept running, seeing Jennifer at the end of the short tunnel. She broke into the open, then slammed into the pavement like she’d been poleaxed.

Three SWAT officers closed on her, one holding a Taser and applying juice. Two more appeared from the other side of the tunnel, all of them armed with M4 assault rifles. They heard me coming and all brought their weapons up. One shouted, “Stop right there! Stop, stop, stop!”

I skidded to a halt, not wanting some trigger-happy guy to squeeze, having no idea what they’d been told about whom they were hunting.

I was forced to the ground and both of us were shackled. Getting jerked to our feet, we were led back up to the van. They opened the doors, and on the bench were Radcliffe and two other Taskforce members, all dressed like SWAT officers. He said, “We’ll take it from here.”

The doors closed and we began moving. Radcliffe pulled out a syringe and said, “Pike, I knew when they said someone had gone bad, it was going to be you.”

He plunged it in my thigh, and the world began to swim. The last thing I saw was the fear on Jennifer’s face.