The Circle of Eight (25 page)

She twisted.

His eyes bulged, his hands flailing for the knife as she
used it to push him off of her and onto the other side of the bed. A pool of
crimson quickly stained the white sheets, spreading rapidly as his life fluid
drained from him. She yanked the knife from his throat then jumped out of the
bed. Wiping the blood off the blade and onto the sheets, she placed the knife
on the nightstand, grabbed the pillow and tried to wipe all sense of his saliva
off of her, then straightened her clothes so she could feel human again.

She was tired of being the victim.

Grabbing the knife, she searched him and found a single
key on his person, a key she had to assume was a master key that opened
everything. And a cellphone. Her heart skipped a beat as she gripped it in her
hand. It was an iPhone 5S, so new it probably hadn’t even made it out of its first
week. She pressed the button and the screen demanded a thumbprint.

She looked at the now dead man she had taken it off of,
wondering if a dead thumb print would work.

He’s still warm.

She grabbed his thumb and pressed it against the sensor.

The phone unlocked and her mind flipped through
everybody she could think of that she could call, and realized she knew almost
no one’s phone number, almost all of her calls being done from her contacts
list in her own phone.

Suddenly a number popped in her head only because it had
an easy to remember sequence, and it had been recently mentioned by James.

Footsteps walked by the door and she froze, cursing
herself for not locking it. They faded away and she tiptoed to the door,
locking it with the key she had found, then turned her attention back to the
phone.

And it too was now locked.

She pressed her assailant’s thumb against the sensor again
then sent a quick text message so she wouldn’t be heard. She sent several more
with as many details as she could provide, then found the setting to disable
the thumb scanning. She slipped the phone into her pocket then went to the
window to see if it was clear.

And the only person she saw was her beloved James,
racing toward the vineyards.

Outside Gendarmerie Bourg-de-Four, Geneva, Switzerland

Dawson resisted the urge to look at his watch. He hated waiting. He
was a man of action, or movement at least. Sitting in the driver’s seat of an
SUV waiting made him antsy. He was used to it, somewhat, a major part of his
job spent just waiting, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.

And it usually ended with him getting to blow something
up or shoot at someone.

Today they hoped none of that would be necessary.

He looked at his watch.

“They’re late.”

“Certainly not operating like a fine Swiss watch,”
agreed Niner, who Dawson was sure was equally on edge, his partner Jimmy one of
the two of his team locked up.

Dawson activated his comm.

“Bravo Seven, report.”

Atlas’ voice boomed over the earpiece.

“Our hacked transfer order has been accepted and
actioned,” he said as Spock climbed in the back of the SUV giving a thumbs up.
“It looks like they’ve got some sort of mechanical failure on one of the
vehicles that’s delaying things, over.”

“Gee, I wonder how that could’ve happened,” asked Niner
as he eyeballed Spock.

Spock’s eyebrow climbed his forehead.

“Why look at me? It’s not my fault I only got through
the first two pages of Oil Changes for Dummies.”

“BD, looks like they’re going to proceed with only two
vehicles,” said Atlas, tapped into the security camera feeds from the other
side of the Atlantic. “You should see them exiting the rear now.”

Dawson looked in his rearview mirror and saw the gates
open and two paddy wagons pull out and turn toward their position, the gates
slowly closing behind them.

“Which one has our guys?” he asked.

“Locater has them in the lead vehicle. A review of the
footage confirms two inside with them plus a driver and shotgun. Rear vehicle
has six in the back, two in the front.”

“Roger that,” replied Dawson as he pulled out into
traffic, several vehicles behind the mini-convoy. “Bravo Two, report, over?”

Red’s voice came through on the comm loud and clear.

“We’re in position, over.”

Dawson glanced in the rearview mirror at his team,
relaying his message to all listening.

“Remember, we want to keep casualties to a minimum.” He
paused as they made a turn, the convoy still following the expected route.
“Bravo Two, proceed when ready, over.”

“Roger that, out.”

Dawson was still several vehicles back of the convoy,
Red’s not yet in sight.

“Coming up on your left,” came Red’s voice over the
comm. Dawson looked and saw the silver BMW 335is convertible with Red and
Mickey swing into view, top down, gunning it in the left lane then cutting in
front of them. Dawson honked his horn and shook his fist. Mickey flipped him
the bird as did Red who then looked at each other and laughed, darting back out
in the left lane and jumping ahead of the two police vehicles. They suddenly
braked, cutting in front, causing them all to jerk to a halt.

Dawson pulled up directly behind the second paddy wagon
and threw open his door, marching past the two blocked vehicles toward the silver
BMW and its two belligerent occupants.

“What’s the bloody idea!” he yelled with his near
perfect Aussie accent. “Where’d you learn to drive, mate?”

“Oh piss off you limey bastard! Don’t you have a new
baby or something to coo over?”

Somebody yelled something in French and they all turned
to see the driver of the lead vehicle standing on the running board, half out
of the vehicle, yelling at them to get out of the way.

Dawson dropped his head, raising his hands, apologizing
as he made his way back to his SUV, the BMW’s tires lighting up behind him as
Red peeled away. As Dawson passed the rear of the second vehicle he took a
glance at the rear doors and smiled. Spock had had enough time to do his job,
which was to exit from the passenger side of the vehicle at the same time
Dawson did, but while all eyes were on the altercation at the front, he instead
sprayed the seams of the rear doors of the second vehicle with an incredibly
strong adhesive that would bind the two doors together long enough that the six
armed officers in the back would be useless.

Now they were only dealing with six instead of twelve.

Unknown Location

James Acton’s feet shoved against the grass, his arms pumping at his
sides as he sprinted as hard as his sore body could manage toward the vineyard
and possible freedom. As he approached he spotted an opening in the thick vines
and made for it, bursting through to the other side. He dodged to the right
then hit the ground, peering through the intertwined branches and at the house
he had just left.

As he caught his breath he waited to see if anyone had
spotted him. He could see no activity from the house and began to relax
slightly, continuing to watch. Still nothing. He looked down the row of grapevines
and saw another opening just a few feet down. He scrambled over and pushed through, again pausing. He couldn’t see the house through the two
rows of vines so he assumed they wouldn’t be able to see him. Climbing to his
feet, still crouching, he peered over the top of the row he was in and nearly
choked.

Somebody was climbing out of the side window that had
been opened. The slight frame suggested a woman, but the clothes had him crying
out for joy, slapping his palms over his mouth as he did so.

Laura!

There was no doubt. He would recognize her across an
ocean. He rushed back to the first row of grapevines and hit the dirt, crawling
forward so his head was sticking out just enough to see her progress. She had
made it to the ground and ducked behind some bushes, obscuring her from sight,
but her bright white blouse still stood out, noticeable even from here.

And definitely noticeable to the two robed figures approaching
the back corner of the house.

Milton Residence, St. Paul, Maryland

Gregory Milton dragged one foot forward, almost dropping it on the
treadmill, then the other, repeating this tortuous routine over and over as the
machine droned on at an impossibly slow pace. His recovery would be long and
painful, but the doctors were shocked at his progress. When he had been shot in
the back they had said he’d most likely never walk again, but they had been
wrong.

He was supposed to have died that day, but he had survived,
fate placing a doctor at the same gas station at the time of the shooting. Then
the spinal surgeons had said he’d probably regain some feeling, but not
mobility. Now they were all changing their stories and the possibility was now
dangling out there that he might stage a full recovery.

He’d never forget the day those Delta Force men had
arrived at his house to collect his best friend, James Acton. He had stood up
in a rage, stunning everyone in the room, including himself.

His progress had been rapid since, his young daughter
telling everyone her daddy was walking all the time now and was better.

And she was the reason he was putting himself through
all this torture.

Her naïve observations were way off the mark, but that
optimism and blind faith in her father the superhero gave him the strength to
forge ahead. He didn’t know how long it would take, but he figured he had at
least fifteen years before his daughter might marry, and he was determined to
dance at her wedding.

He just hoped it didn’t take fifteen years.

The renewed optimism was what kept him going, what kept
them all going. Plans to retrofit the house for a permanently disabled person
were cancelled. They already had the ramp out front and the master bedroom had
been moved to the main floor, the bathroom downstairs retrofitted to his needs,
the second floor a distant memory. But the rest of the plans to make the entire
house accessible had been cancelled after he had stood up.

Now there was hope, and despite the pain, the
frustration, the aggravation, he did his physical therapy every day, without
fail, no matter how rotten he felt.

And every day, there was a hint of progress.

He was a numbers man, so he recorded everything, and he
could tell from week to week he was improving, even if it sometimes didn’t
necessarily feel like it. His sense of feeling in his legs and feet continued
to improve dramatically, he could go longer and farther every week on the
treadmill, and he was starting to lose the gut that had started and regain the
muscle mass in his legs, already a full three inches on each thigh.

He no longer cried when he saw himself naked in the
mirror, his tiny legs getting skinnier with each month of inactivity, his
stomach gaining an inch a month as he slowly gave up, silently suffering on his
own, his family only seeing the brave face he put on when others were in the
room.

But now there was a future in front of him, and he was
fighting to reach that light at the end of the tunnel sooner rather than later.

And nothing would stop him from accomplishing his goal.

Milton looked up as his wife entered the room, holding
up his cellphone. He frowned, not liking anyone to see him like this.

“You need to see this,” she said, holding up the phone.

“Not now,” he gasped as he kept plodding forward to nowhere.

She stepped forward and hit the big red
Stop
button in the center of the treadmill’s console.

“No, you need to see this, now.”

He gave her his “I’m not happy with you” glare then
looked at the phone, a text message displayed on its screen. His eyebrows shot
up as his jaw dropped.

“Help me to my chair,” he said, and Sarah came to his
side. He draped his arm over her shoulder, she holding his back and he stepped
off the treadmill and dropped unceremoniously into his wheelchair. He took the phone
and quickly began to read.

Greg help us. James and I have been kidnapped. Trace
this message.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered as he rolled himself to the
kitchen. “Get me the phone,” he said and Sarah immediately grabbed it, placing
it on the table in front of him. She also found a pad and pen for him before he
had a chance to ask. He smiled at her gratefully.

“Have you read all these?” he asked.

“No, just the first one,” she said, sitting down.

“Here’s the second one,” he said, reading, “We went to
Geneva to help Bravo Team then James and I were kidnapped. He thinks I’m dead
so isn’t looking for me. If I don’t make it out of here, tell him I love him
and was thinking of him.”

Tears rolled down Sarah’s cheeks as he fought his own. Jim
was his best friend since college, and though he was Dean and Jim’s boss, they
had remained incredibly close. This closeness meant they had also become very
close with Laura as well. They were family and they were in trouble.

“There were three?” prompted his wife.

He nodded. “I just killed my captor. This is his phone.
They are the Rosicrucians and are very dangerous. They killed Stucco and his
family plus some people here including children. The main man seems to be
Martin Lacroix from the World Bank. Don’t risk yourself just get in touch with
Delta. They will know what to do. Love you guys.”

Sarah wiped her tears away with the back of her hand,
then reached across the table and grabbed a tissue, blowing her nose.

“What are you going to do?”

“Make the same damned phone call I did last time this
happened.”

“That took a long time if I remember.”

“Yes, but this time I know who to ask for by name.”