Thin Line (27 page)

He said nothing.

"You want this?" I held up the phone. "Then we keep this meeting between the two of us."

"Give me a break, Jack. I know you got that behemoth around here somewhere."

"You see him out there in the parking lot?"

Frank shrugged.

"That's what I thought. Now get your team out of here."

Frank pulled out his phone, pressed a button on the side, and spoke his instructions after the device made a quick chirping sound. A few moments later, the
van's headlights cut on and the vehicle backed out of its spot. The driver navigated to the edge of the lot and turned left, heading east. They wouldn't go
far. Just enough to be out of sight and in a place where their communication equipment would still work.

"Happy now?" he asked.

I'd pissed him off, but he had to have expected I'd react that way. He kept a unit in plain sight, even had the balls to walk up to them before coming in.
It was as though he'd wanted me to see it.

That last point stirred panic within.

"Hand it over," he said, pointing at the phone.

I spun it around in my palm a couple times, then set it on the table. With a flick of my finger, it slid across the laminate tabletop. Frank stopped it
in its path.

He sat there for a long moment, staring at the phone. Did he suspect it to be bugged? Would he have any idea how we did it? With one hand, he picked it up
and flipped the phone open. His thumb moved up, down, left, right, pressed and held buttons. Frank's expression changed. He arched an eyebrow.

"What is it?" There was nothing left on the phone that would have provided anything other than confirmation it had belonged to Brett Taylor. Yet, Frank
looked like he'd discovered the lost treasure of the Grand Canyon.

"Seems you proved the case against this guy. Bet your new buddy in Paris would like to see this." He turned the phone around and extended it midway across
the table.

I leaned forward. The screen was small, which made the text on the picture nearly impossible to read. What I could make out was written in French.

"Taylor had someone manage to take a photo of Pierre's plans," Frank said. "Probably showed this to that terrorist he was linked with."

My heart pounded against my chest like a stampeding bull. I had to fight to pull air into my lungs. My face burned. No one ever accused me of being a
technophile, but I'd been through every file and folder on that phone and had never come across that image.

"You all right, Jack?" There was no concern behind Frank's words.

I looked over his shoulder. The van that he'd parked next to raced past.

Frank smiled. "Think you can screw me over?"

THE ELDERLY MAN looked back at us. His spoon hovered where his lips were before Frank's profane outburst. The waitress stood frozen, carefully balancing my
food in one hand and two mugs in the other. Even the parking lot and road beyond it were still.

Frank kept both hands in view. So did I. The moment one of us moved, the other would as well. The results wouldn't be pretty for either of us. One dead,
one alive. Maybe both wounded, bleeding on the table and floor, scrambling to get to the parking lot.

After the old man had returned to his soup, and the waitress dropped off the plate and the mugs, I countered Frank's assertion.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about, Frank."

He shook his head. "Everything I did for you, and you want to stab me in the back?" He pulled the back off the phone, removed the battery. "Where is it?"

"What?"

"Whatever you did to this phone."

I said nothing. Half my concentration had left with the van. Had they been able to trace the signal to its source? I had to get this over with so I could
get to them.

"We picked up on your link in the parking lot. Don't worry. We jammed it as soon as we had a car close to the other end of the signal. Bear hasn't heard
any of this. I expect by now he's in cuffs, crammed in the backseat. The van was just to figure out what all they might have picked up on."

"That photo's fake."

"What does it matter? Huh? It's on Brett's phone. The one you willingly gave me. That picture gives us everything we need to take him in. Guess we could do
your job, but you'd probably turn on us for that. That's a mess neither of us needs right now. This way, he'll go through the legal channel and get what he
deserves."

"You know he's innocent."

"I couldn't care less whether he's innocent or if he's feeding secrets to Bin Laden. We had an order to take him out. That order was handed to you. You
decided against completing the operation. I don't know what he told you, or why you chose to disobey, Jack. I'm not gonna, though."

The rest of the diner carried on as if nothing was happening. They had no clue an innocent man would soon be in the bowels of a federal penitentiary,
waiting for his death sentence to be carried out. But none of that would happen until they had beaten him to within an inch of his life in an attempt to
extract whatever secrets might remain.

And perhaps he had them. Presumably he didn't, though. Maybe he would fabricate some. Wouldn't be much of a stretch for a guy who's seen as much as Brett
to create a few story lines that would waste millions in taxpayer money while the Agency tracked down leads made of vapor.

"Here's what's going to happen," Frank said. "In ten minutes, I'm going to get up and walk out of here. You're going to finish your breakfast; you know,
clog up those arteries with that slop you got there. Then no sooner than five minutes after I leave, you'll get up and go. If you're lucky, or I should
say, if Riley is lucky, you'll find him wandering on the side of the road."

I studied his every movement in search of a tell that said he was lying or trying to intimidate me. I saw nothing to indicate either.

"And then, Jack, you two will disappear. I don't want to hear of you guys accepting another government job ever again. I don't care what you do. Go back to
the Keys where I found you. Start a dive shop. Run a bar. Couldn't care less. But don't ever let me hear of you taking on another job. I will personally
make sure it gets so jacked up that you end up buried."

How far would he go? When motivated, Frank could be as heartless as a dictator hell-bent on genocide. Our past meant nothing if it got in his way.

He slid to the end of the table. And for a brief second, while worming out from behind the table that I'd intentionally moved six inches earlier, Frank
looked back toward the door.

And I made him pay for it.

Getting out was effortless. Frank must've sensed it. He twisted and went into a defensive position. Too late, though. A quick strike to the solar plexus
neutralized him. I cocked back and drove the same fist into the side of his red face. His eyes rolled back and he stumbled to the side. One more strike
connected with his nose. Cartilage snapped against my knuckles. Blood sprayed diagonally toward the kitchen door.

There were cries from the other side of the restaurant. Someone yelled out to call 9-1-1.

Frank was down on both knees, bent forward. Despite the punishment he took, the bastard hadn't let go of the phone. And there was too much unrest in the
diner for me to wait any longer. One of the waitresses frantically pleaded with the police to hurry. I recalled that the station was only a few blocks
away. If I didn't leave now, they'd have me pinned. And the one guy who could hand over my get-out-of-jail card was bleeding all over the floor in front of
me.

So I bolted for the door and left Frank, and the phone, behind.

The old man with the soup rose and tried to block my path. He moved at the last second, tripping over his chair and falling. I didn't look back. Two
waitresses rushed over to help him. They shouted something at me. I didn't bother to respond as I could barely understand the words.

Tunnel vision had set in.

I burst through the door and navigated a slick section of sidewalk and asphalt. The car roared to life as I turned the key in the ignition. Lukewarm air
blew from the vents. I threw it in reverse and hit the gas. The car worked against me at first, but I corrected and exited the lot.

The next mile was the longest of my life. The speedometer said eighty, but it felt like I was crawling. The turnoff approached. The brakes locked up and
tires squealed. I pumped the pedal and decelerated rapidly. Snow lined either side of the road, probably iced over. If I hit it, I might end up rolling
several times through the field. After making the turn, I stayed to the middle of the dirt-packed road. It wasn't far to the spot where Bear and Brett had
positioned themselves.

Now I wondered whether they would be there.

The red pickup loomed in a distant clearing. It stood alone, all four cab doors open. I pulled off the road and exited the vehicle. I swept the area, right
to left, back again. There was no sign of anyone.

Components from the box Bear's associate had provided littered the ground next to the passenger side of the truck. I knelt down to inspect them. Looking
ahead, I saw blood on the seat, dash, and floor. I scanned the ground for shell casings. Didn't see any. Didn't mean shots weren't fired. The guys sent
here were pros. They would have policed their brass and left without a trace.

For the most part.

They knew I'd make my way here, and Frank had probably told them to put the fear into me.

Banging arose from behind the truck. I positioned myself in front of it, gun drawn, checking underneath for anyone who had remained behind. There was no
one there. I shifted to the driver's side, peeked around the corner. Nobody. Did the same from the passenger side. Same results.

"Someone there?"

The deep voice managed something indecipherable. It sounded rougher than normal, but there was no mistaking who it was. I rose and hurried to the back of
the pickup. Bear tried to lift himself off the bed floor. His face was bloodied. It poured from his mouth, nose, and a gash on his forehead.

"Christ, Bear. What the hell happened?" I held out a hand and helped him up.

He shook his head. Blood flew left and right. "We lost the signal. Lost isn't right. Static overtook the line."

"Yeah, it was Frank."

"I know." He leaned back, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Bastards didn't try to hide it."

"How many it take to do that to you?"

Bear shrugged. "They clipped me from behind. Three or four strikes with a blackjack and I was down. Don't remember climbing up in this truck, so I figure
they hauled me up here."

"How many were there?"

"I only saw one. A big blond bloodless bastard."

"Any shots fired?"

"Not that I heard, but after they cracked my skull, I didn't hear much."

"Frank said they'd take Brett in, let the courts handle it. He somehow downloaded what I assume are fake documents to the phone. Guess they'll use that.
Wouldn't be surprised if they make one or both of us testify, using the threat of false charges against us if we don't."

"You know where they'll take him?" Bear used the rail to pull himself toward the lift gate. He sat on the edge for a few moments, eyelids clamped shut,
head down. He took a couple steadying breaths before dropping one foot to the ground.

"There's holding cells in the lower levels of the SIS building, but Frank won't go there. He knows I've got the layout committed to memory."

"So that leaves whoever put him up to the job, then."

"Probably."

With every step Bear took, he regained a little balance and strength. Using his shirt, he wiped blood from his face. A fresh stream of crimson spilled from
the gash in his head.

"We need to get you to a hospital," I said.

He shrugged. "I can manage."

"Not a good idea. At the very least, you need to be stitched up."

"Jeremy's a paramedic. We need to bring his truck back anyway."

"Why am I not surprised?"

Bear laughed, then winced. He climbed into the cab and started the truck. He had a possible concussion, but there wasn't anything I could say to keep him
out of the driver's seat, so I got into the sedan and led the way.

I used the first minute or two to walk through the likely sequence of events and where they might take Brett. I'd need help moving forward. From who,
though? Frank had always been my closest ally, and now we were done. Perhaps Reese's contact could help. Maybe even Joe Dunne, if I could reach him, and
depending on how bad he wanted to figure out what had happened to McLellan.

A short drive later, we were on the road to the warehouse, bracketed by trucks with empty cargo beds. We turned into the lot and parked near the main
structure. Jeremy must've been waiting, because he was jogging toward us before I had the car in park. Panic spread on the man's face. No doubt he'd caught
a glimpse of Bear.

"What the hell happened?" Jeremy yelled.

I intercepted him and calmed him down as Bear lumbered over, a fresh sheet of blood spilling from the largest wound. Jeremy led us into the building
through an unmarked side door. He called his wife and asked her to bring him some supplies. While waiting, he cleaned Bear's wounds using the warehouse's
first aid kit.

I gave him an overview of what happened to his equipment at the diner. Bear filled him in on the rest.

"So it was for nothing," I said.

Jeremy stopped, shook his head. "Not exactly."

"How so?"

"That receiver has a hard drive. It should have recorded everything since the moment you began transmitting."

"But we missed everything," Bear said, explaining that all he heard was static.

"Did they run the interference through the phone with the chip?"

"No," I said. "They had a van outfitted with communication equipment."

"So they just broadcasted some interference. You get the right guy, someone with serious audio capabilities, he can probably clean that up for you."

There was a sharp rap on the door. An attractive brunette stuck her head in.