Split second, p.19
Split Second, page 19
Blake began searching the house methodically, his gun always leading the way. When he reached the family room he threw open the door to the closet, prepared to fire, but only found a few light jackets hanging inside.
As they approached the half-open door to the kitchen, Blake spied remnants of a bloody handprint near the handle, further sharpening his already heightened sense of alertness. When he reached the entrance, he rushed through, crouching low as he did, but the room was empty, and the door on the opposite side leading to the dining room was fully closed. Jenna and Walsh followed him in, and their mouths hung open as they saw hints of a trail of blood leading to Soyer’s massive refrigerator, as though the blood trail had once been extensive, but a hasty clean-up hadn’t quite managed to get it all.
All three walked zombie-like toward the refrigerator in horror.
Blake, who was in the lead, shot up a hand to call a halt, but his companions missed this signal and continued walking, only stopping when they ran into him.
Blake’s intuition was sending him an alarm once again. This didn’t feel right. Either the assault team wouldn’t care about leaving tracks, or they’d be sure to clean up perfectly. There should be no middle ground. And why would a group this sophisticated stuff Soyer’s body in a refrigerator?
The appliance was probably booby-trapped, Blake realized. The tiny lightbulb wouldn’t be the only thing that was activated when they opened the door.
A loud thud sounded as something large crashed onto the kitchen’s glossy black cooktop, landing among four large circles etched into the ceramic. Blake wheeled, prepared to fire toward the small center island, and spotted the newly arrived canister.
The instant he saw it, he instinctively resisted the urge to draw more air into his lungs. If the gas was largely benign, this would buy him time. If not, he was dead already.
Regardless, he couldn’t hold his breath for long.
Jenna Morrison and Dan Walsh reacted the way any civilian would. They gasped, and their hearts accelerated explosively, causing them to suck in even more air than usual. Both collapsed in heaps beside Blake.
Blake darted behind the half-open door leading from the kitchen to the family room, from which the canister had been tossed. He flattened himself against the wall and waited, his gun still drawn. His only chance was that he could hold his breath until whoever was responsible entered the kitchen to inspect his handiwork.
But after only thirty seconds, Blake’s lungs were already on fire. Perhaps he had joined the wrong Special Forces unit. Had he been a Navy SEAL he could have held his breath until the sun set, but breath-holding wasn’t his strong suit.
At last, fifteen seconds of agony later, a man walked cautiously through the door, and Blake struck, clocking him in the skull with his gun, but it was only a glancing blow and the man retained consciousness. Blake knew he could only hold his breath for ten or fifteen seconds more, if that. Every cell in his body was now screaming for oxygen, and only his battle-tested will prevented him from succumbing to this ultimate, irresistible need.
As the man chopped at Blake’s arm, forcing his gun to fly into the middle of the kitchen and clatter around the floor, Blake slapped desperately at his mask, dislodging it from his face.
The man’s eyes widened in panic, but as he moved to replace the mask over his mouth, Blake jabbed him in the stomach, causing a reflexive exhalation, followed by a reflexive inhalation.
The gas took effect instantly.
As the man folded to the ground, Blake stripped his mask from him and brought it to his mouth. He gasped a breath, barely clinging to consciousness. The infusion of air sparked him back to life, and his vitality returned in a rush as he gulped down several more rapid-fire lungfuls while securing the mask in place.
His mind began hitting on all cylinders. Were there more hostiles?
If this was his op, he would have assigned two commandos. He would wait until his quarry was in a contained room, without windows, as they had done. But this kitchen had two entrances. So he would man both, in case a man like Blake managed to hold his breath in time and race for a window, crashing through to breathable air. So Blake reasoned there would be another man in the dining room, one who had the sense to wait longer before entering the kitchen.
Blake scooped up his gun and darted to the opposite entrance, once again pressing himself flat against the wall, but this time masked and able to breathe.
Just over a minute had passed since the canister had been thrown, but it seemed like ten. He was vaguely aware of time compressing, of his mind being able to operate at superhuman speed, of events proceeding in slow motion—one of the reasons he was such an adrenaline junkie.
Then, right on cue, a second man opened the door from the kitchen to the dining room and entered the kitchen.
“Freeze!” snapped Blake, pressing his gun into the intruder’s back.
He considered tearing off the man’s mask and rendering him unconscious, but decided against it. “Drop your gun,” he barked though his mask, but even as he said this he realized the man wasn’t holding one. “Get your gun with two fingers and toss it to the other side of the room,” he amended.
The man did as he was told.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Recinos.”
“How many?” barked Blake.
“Just two of us,” said Recinos, nodding toward his fallen comrade on the opposite side of the kitchen.
“Lie to me again and I put a bullet in your head. How many?”
“Just two,” repeated the man without hesitation.
Blake spotted a small, nondescript tattoo on the man’s neck, just above his shoulders. Kermit the frog, only half an inch high.
Blake understood its meaning immediately. The man was a special operator. Green Beret.
Despite what was often depicted in movies and television, special operators were severely discouraged from getting any unit identifying tattoos. Often these soldiers sported long hair and beards on missions overseas to blend in. Being recognized as military in any way could spell disaster. If a mission went wrong, wearing a tattoo of a SEAL Trident or Special Forces arrowhead wasn’t the best way to pretend you were a student, simply visiting your captor’s spectacular third world country.
But some soldiers took to wearing tattoos they believed only other commandos would recognize. Terrorists wouldn’t connect Kermit the Frog, if they had any idea who that was, with the Green Berets. But Blake did. The frog’s catchphrase said it all: It’s not easy being green.
So what the hell were an Army Ranger and Green Beret doing warring in a civilian home in Orange County? It was all insane.
But Blake had no time right now to reflect on the absurdity. He still had plenty of work to do.
“Remove your mask,” he ordered, “and take a breath.”
“Not going to happen,” said Recinos. “You’ll have to shoot me first.”
Blake sighed. “Look, I know you’re a Green Beret. Are you aware I was a Ranger?”
“Yes.”
“Then what the hell are you doing attacking me?”
“I wasn’t told why. And I was assured you weren’t going to be harmed. If not, I wouldn’t have been a part of this op, regardless of orders, until I was convinced you were an enemy of the state.”
“You’re being played,” said Blake. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m one of the good guys in this drama. So take off your mask and breathe. I promise you, you’ll awaken good as new. I swear it.”
Recinos stared long and hard into Blake’s eyes, weighing his soul. “Okay,” he said finally, reaching for his mask. “And if my superiors did get it wrong, as you say, I wish you the best of luck.”
“It would help if you would tell me if there are any men outside.”
Instead of replying, Recinos removed his mask, took a deep breath, and collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
Blake verified that Jenna and Walsh were still alive and then rushed to the front door. He opened it halfway, but stood to the side in case this attracted gunfire. When none was forthcoming, he crouched low and screamed as loudly as he could through the opening. “Both of your comrades are unconscious. Recinos told me you were out here. Surrender in the next ten seconds and everyone lives. Stay where you are and I put bullets into the heads of your two friends.”
Blake hoped his acting ability was holding up. For one, he could well be talking to himself, since there was no guarantee there was anyone outside, and further, he wouldn’t hurt the helpless men lying unconscious in the kitchen under any circumstances.
“Okay then!” shouted Blake. “Your mistake! You’ll miss them when they’re gone. Especially knowing you killed them.”
With that he began to swing the door fully closed.
“Wait!” screamed a man, bolting out from behind Soyer’s Mercedes, his hands raised over his head. “I surrender.”
“Good choice,” said Blake, pushing the door fully open once more. He was a little surprised there had actually been another hostile. Good for Recinos. He had protected his teammate under threat of being shot, never once flinching. Blake was aware there could well be more men lurking about, but at this point it was a risk he had to take.
He ordered the newcomer inside the house. As he slowly moved forward, the man shot a quick, furtive glance over Blake’s head and skyward, but Blake was locked onto his eyes like a laser-guided missile and easily caught this.
He understood the significance immediately. They must have signaled their ride to return. Which meant his time was running out. “Move it!” he demanded, now aware the man was stalling.
Blake shot several rounds within inches of his captive’s head to make his point, and the man’s pace picked up considerably. Seconds after he was marched deeper into the house, Blake forced him to breathe the invisible gas that had yet to fully dissipate, and he joined his friends on the floor, unconscious.
Blake hurried to the kitchen and used a fireman’s carry to haul Jenna, and then Walsh, back to their newly purchased car, studying the sky periodically.
Just as he deposited both passengers into the backseat and finished seat-belting them in as tightly as he could, he saw something far off in the distance. It was as if a small portion of the distant sky was blurry, and the blur was moving. He tilted his head in confusion, not sure what he was seeing, when it finally occurred to him that it was the helicopter he was looking for.
It was whisper quiet and somehow tricked his eye into ignoring its presence for several seconds. Unbelievable.
But Blake had no time to gawk. Astonishing or not, the pilot had no doubt spotted him, and the aircraft was accelerating in his direction with terrible purpose.
He started the car and tore down the hill toward the crowded street as the helo swooped down from above, a hawk having spotted helpless prey.
33
Joe Allen ran through options in his mind as the pilot beside him streaked toward Aaron Blake below.
How the hell had Blake done it?
Allen had been texted less than five minutes earlier that the targets had taken the bait, and he had been certain Blake and his two companions would soon be in dreamland on the floor.
But for someone who was unconscious, Aaron Blake sure could operate a car effectively. And none of the three men tasked with capturing him were responding to his calls.
Blake was tearing down the road at a rate that required massive balls and impressive driving skill, spurred on by the terror anyone on the ground would be feeling when under the guns of a military aircraft. He was approaching a portion of the drive that would be partially hidden under a canopy of trees, and soon thereafter he would hit the main road.
“Abort!” shouted Allen, his face showing nothing but disgust that he had actually uttered this word. “I repeat, break off.”
“Break off, sir?” said Jason Thompson, pulling back on the yoke to slow his meteoric descent, but only a little, unwilling to fully retract his talons.
“Yes, break off!” repeated Allen. “Now!” he shouted, and Thompson finally pulled up into a hover.
“What would you have me do, Captain,” said Allen miserably, “chase him along a busy shopping district in a Black Ops helicopter that’s so futuristic it might be mistaken for a fucking UFO? It tricks the eye, but not forever. How many more chances am I going to take with technology that isn’t supposed to exist—in domestic airspace!”
He shook his head. “Even if this were standard-issue equipment, I couldn’t make a spectacle in Orange fucking County. And unless we want to kill him, we can’t stop them anyway.”
“Yes, sir,” said Thompson, who had been gradually taking the helo to a higher altitude as his temporary CO was speaking.
“Land at Soyer’s house again,” said Allen.
He needed to learn what had happened. See if any of the men were still alive. And he still needed to conduct a more thorough search.
Allen clenched his hand into a fist and his features hardened. “But mark my words, Captain, we’ll get this guy. We now have photos of the car he’s driving. We can call in law enforcement and satellites. He won’t stay at large for long.”
“You really think so, sir?” asked Thompson.
Allen gritted his teeth. No, he didn’t think so. How could he? Blake had proven himself too smart and resourceful too often for Allen to believe standard techniques would snare him. He wasn’t even sure why he had said something so stupid, and then realized it was probably because he didn’t want Thompson to perceive him as impotent after he had called off the attack.
So what would he answer? Would he tell Thompson the truth, that of course he didn’t think they’d get him this way? Or would he feign confidence, and thus appear to be even more the naive idiot?
“Just land the helo, Captain,” said Allen finally. “I thank you for your assistance, but in a short while, Aaron Blake will no longer be your concern.”
34
Blake careened down the road as though the car’s brake lines had been cut, now knowing how a field mouse felt when under attack from above. Totally overmatched, and totally helpless.
He half expected to receive a rocket-propelled suppository at any moment, but none came. He shot into the main street, tires squealing, and risked looking back for the helicopter, since his sense of hearing wasn’t the guide it should have been, ignoring the honks, shouts, and extended middle fingers of motorists not pleased with his driving etiquette and the burnt rubber he had deposited on the road.
The aircraft was no longer behind him.
Blake blew out a long breath, his heart still pounding away in his chest. He had hoped the men after him wouldn’t pull a stunt like attacking him on a crowded road in broad daylight. But given the resources of the group hunting him, he had an hour, at most, before they’d be able to divert a satellite from other duties to attend to him. He had to ditch the car, and every minute counted.
“Myla,” he said to his PDA. “I need to know the largest parking structure within ten miles of here.”
Seconds later his phone provided the answer to his question. There was a five-story structure four miles distant. He asked his PDA to call out directions, and his phone did so in a pleasant female voice.
His mood darkened as he drove. Yes, he had managed to pull off a minor miracle at Soyer’s house, although it could be argued that his own incompetence and hubris had put him in this situation in the first place. But Nathan Wexler’s flash drive had been taken, and Greg Soyer also. If he wasn’t already dead.
And Blake had been responsible. It had been his decision to bring this good man into the middle of a situation he had known couldn’t have been more dangerous.
He let out a primal scream that had been bottled up for some time, so loud and long he half-expected his two passengers to regain consciousness.
Provided Greg Soyer was still alive, Blake vowed to extricate him from this mess no matter what it took.
He made one stop at a convenience store, where he purchased two oversized blankets, before entering the busy parking garage. He was now hidden from satellites.
He parked in the farthest reaches of the structure, his car an island in a sea of empty spaces, and turned the front and back seats into couches for his two sleeping passengers, stretching them out and hiding every inch of them with a blanket, while relieving them of their money.
Jenna had two twenties, along with the five hundred dollars she had withdrawn from the ATM the night before, and Walsh had almost two hundred. Blake had five twenties, giving him a total of just over eight hundred dollars to work with.
He left the parking garage on foot and called a cab company, asking them to send a cab in fifteen minutes to a location seven blocks away. After walking for five minutes he came to a small grocery store, and used an ATM inside to withdraw five hundred dollars from his account, pushing his total to thirteen hundred. This would be the last money they would have for some time, as he was confident their accounts would be frozen very soon, and any attempts to access their money noted with great interest.
While he waited for the cab, he had Myla call up a list of cars for sale within a few miles. This time he decided his car budget could only be a thousand dollars, so they would at least have three hundred going forward. The kind of clunker he would get for this price would have over two hundred thousand miles on the odometer and make the dented Kia look like a Ferrari.
His goal was to buy a car and return to the parking structure for his two companions within forty-five minutes, hopefully even sooner. With luck, he could have them loaded into the new vehicle and on their way in half an hour.
The clock hadn’t yet struck noon, but it had already been a very long day. And he knew it was about to get longer.
35
Jenna Morrison and Dan Walsh finally regained consciousness at about four p.m., within five minutes of each other, almost an hour after Blake had carried them inside the ratty motel he had paid for in cash, the Best Border Inn, a name that was surely meant ironically.
