The Forgotten Soldier: A Pike Logan Thriller (22 page)

42

G
uy ignored the couple, focusing on the target in the window, disgusted at his paranoia. He ordered a beer, pushing the Coke away. When it arrived, he downed it in three large gulps, thinking about the future. He still had two men to kill, and he was fairly certain he could find them, given the electronic tether he had with Nassir’s phone. He also had the key to the safe-deposit box in Athens, a box that was apparently a clearinghouse of false documents and bank accounts.

And a man in a café . . . decisions, decisions, decisions.

He ordered another beer, then felt his bladder, realizing he hadn’t urinated the entire night, unwilling to use the bathroom the body was in. He stood up, moving toward the entrance, and found himself unconsciously leaning to the right, vertigo making him feel as if he were falling. He grabbed a table and steadied himself, shaking his head to clear it.

The sensation subsided, and he entered the café, following the signs to the restrooms. He reached the narrow stairwell, feeling his brain growing fuzzy. A peculiar half-drunk without the euphoria. He was close to the bottom of the stairwell when he slipped, sliding the rest of the way on his butt.

The room began to shift violently, and he realized he’d been drugged.
The woman outside. Should have listened to my instinct.

He fought through the dizziness, swinging his hand about, trying to find purchase on the rail. He glanced up and saw his waiter standing at the top of the stairs, looking down in concern. He felt a cool breeze and realized a door had opened. Another waiter, pushing a keg of beer, came through. He could see the twilight outside, the setting sun bouncing off of a delivery van, the engine running.

Incongruously, he wondered if the van would get a ticket for parking illegally, his brain refusing purchase on his situation.

The waiter with the keg bent over, and Guy held out his hand, mumbling for help. The man pulled out a pistol and pointed it at Guy’s head, saying, “Drop your weapon. I know you have one.”

Guy stared into the maw of the barrel, the darkness sucking him in, and a small piece of his mind clicked. A sliver of his true self broke free.

He reached behind his back and withdrew the worn 6P9, laying it on the ground. The man said, “Get up. No fighting, or you’ll die right here.”

Guy pulled himself with the rail, forcing his brain to engage. Forcing out the fog by sheer will alone. He wobbled and realized he would have one chance, and would most likely die right here.

The man waved the pistol to the door, and Guy took a step, then stuttered as if he were falling forward. He was not.

The man grabbed his shirt right at the collarbone, chuckling and saying, “Okay, okay. You’re okay. You can walk.”

Guy reached up and trapped the man’s hands with both of his, then fell sideways for real, using his weight to torque the man’s wrist in a direction it shouldn’t go. The man screamed and Guy felt the bones snap.

He ended up on top of the man, uselessly scrambling to control his weapon. The man yelled again, bringing his gun hand forward, and fired, Guy knocking the gun high, the bullet slapping into the roof. With his left hand, he grabbed the long silencer of the 6P9 and swung the pistol like a tomahawk, smashing the man in the temple.

He heard another crack, and realized someone else was shooting. In slow motion, his body refusing to move with any speed, he turned and saw the waiter at the top of the stairs, holding another pistol.

Team. It’s a team. I’m done.

The man fired again, and Guy flopped backward, reversing the 6P9 and aiming with a two-handed grip. The barrel wobbled all over the place like the hand of a conductor working a symphony. He couldn’t get a sight picture. He squeezed off a round, the bullet traveling harmlessly into space. The man took aim again, and Guy knew he was dead. He waited on the strike, then saw the waiter’s knees buckle, his head snapping backward as if it were attached to a string. Guy blinked and pulled himself upright.

It was the blond woman taking the man down from behind. She brought him to the ground and he watched her hammer the waiter in the throat. She looked down at him, her face hidden by her hair, illuminated in the harsh light of the overhead lamps, and the recognition came like a thunderbolt. It was something he’d seen before, duplicating this very scene. It was the woman from the Taskforce surveillance tape in Istanbul. The one who’d been with Decoy when he died. The one he’d watched over and over, not for her, but for him.

She was Taskforce. And she was deadly.

He stumbled backward, reaching the open door. He went through it, staggering into the street, looking for shadows to hide within.

43

I
started the car immediately, jumping through traffic to get to the cross street at the base of the park. The area was blanketed with pedestrian-only thoroughfares, but the street below the park cut through them all. Where my team was currently running like hell to reach me.

Knuckles worked the radio, a hodgepodge of calls that only fleetingly told us what was going on. Two men down, then three men. Nick and Brett assaulting an armed waiter, then Jennifer eliminating another waiter shooting at Guy. Then all of them sprinting like looters into the park, panting on the radio for pickup.

I raced down the lane, seeing a fountain to my front. The park.

I hammered the brakes, causing the car behind me to honk. I ignored him, staring up the hill. I caught movement. Between gasps for air, I heard, “Almost out—you guys staged?”

I couldn’t make out who the caller was, but Knuckles said, “We’re in position.”

I scanned up the hill and Knuckles said, “There. There they are.”

Three figures broke from a tree line, skipping down the slope in a loping run. Knuckles opened the sliding doors to our minvan, and I kept my eyes up higher. Looking for a follow-on force giving chase. I saw nothing.

They leapt inside, and I hit the gas, moving out of the kill zone and
getting back into the flow of Crete traffic, away from the cloistered neighborhood streets. I let them get some adrenaline out before I began questioning, knowing they’d start talking among each other.

Nick said, “What. The. Fuck. Why did you smack that guy? What did you see?”

Brett said, “He was keyed on Guy. From the moment I entered. When Guy stood up, he started forward. Guy went inside, then I saw him put a hand on a gun.”

“There was no gun. I mean . . . there was no way you could see a gun. How did you know?”

I looked in the rearview and saw Brett wink at Jennifer. He said, “Sometimes you just know. Thanks for helping out.”

Nick said, “You didn’t give me much choice.”

Brett said, “Welcome to the Taskforce. You did fine. Although maybe you should have helped out Jenn instead of me. I had no trouble.”

Jennifer said, “Don’t do that. I was fine. If he’d have come to me, you wouldn’t have been able to handle that third threat.”

I finally cut in, “Okay, enough of the lovefest. What the hell happened?”

Brett said, “Someone is hunting Guy. Someone besides us, and it wasn’t a bunch of Arabs. They were inside the café. They infiltrated the waitstaff. It was a planned ambush, and they were gunning for Guy.”

“Who is it?”

“No idea, but it wasn’t a target of opportunity. They led him there with the man he was following. Led him into an ambush. If we hadn’t been there, he’d be dead instead of on the run.”

I turned onto the main east-west road and said, “Jenn, what about that? Where is he?”

“He fled out the back. No way could I have followed. He had a pistol and was looking to kill. But there was something else.”

“What?”

“He was drugged. He was staggering around. Brett’s right. They knew he was coming, and they infiltrated the waitstaff with a complex plan. It wasn’t the Arabs. Or if it was, they have incredible reach.”

I said, “Why, though? Why go to that trouble? Why not just kill him on the road? If they had that fidelity of where he was?”

Knuckles said what I was thinking. “Because he’s onto something. They needed to take him alive for some reason. Find out what he knew and who he’s working with. They think he’s operating with sanction.”

I shook my head. “Shit. That’s not what I want to hear.”

We rode in silence for a moment, all of us tumbling the information. Finally, Knuckles said, “What’s the next step? What do you want to do?”

I pulled over, putting the van in park. I said, “I’m thinking we brace him on the ferry. We know he’s getting on it because of the credit card purchase.”

“How will we find him?”

I turned to Jennifer. “You burned?”

“I don’t know. He stared at us hard, before the fight, but I think it was just because he’s paranoid. He didn’t get a look at my face during the fight. He was too busy escaping, but he’s Taskforce. He might remember both me and Nick.”

“Brett?”

“No. I’m completely clean.”

“Okay. We go to the ferry.”

I pulled up the ferry company website on a laptop, getting an amenities list. “There are only two places serving food. A restaurant inside, and a fast-food vendor on the deck. Sooner or later, he’s got to get some food or drink. We stake out those two. Jennifer, you mix it up a little bit. Change your hair, put on glasses, something. You’ll go
with Brett as cover to mix up the profile. Nick, you go alone. You get the outside deck. It’s cold out, so wear a hoodie to hide. Take a corner seat and just drink coffee. Look like a hippie backpacker.”

Jennifer said, “What are you and Knuckles going to do?”

“Sit in a room until you call. He sees either of us first, and he’s liable to go lethal.”

44

G
uy felt a hammering in his skull and finally awoke, disoriented in the darkness. He sensed movement, his body feeling as if it were shifting, and tensed for the vertigo.

Then he remembered.

He’d made it to the ferry. That’s what he was feeling. He was on the ocean. He lay back in the small bunk, staring at the ceiling in the gloom, trying to collate all that had occurred. He leaned over the bed, seeing his small knapsack. He slid his hands down the rail and found the 6P9.

He was safe.

The movement back to his hotel, then to the ferry port, was a blur. Like a blackout drunk from his younger days in the Army. Only this one had deadly implications. He had vague recollections of packing, of checking out—the woman looking at him in concern—and staggering to the ferry. He’d arrived right after they allowed boarding and had managed to talk his way through the process. There were no customs or other law enforcement, the only gateway being a ticket agent and two stevedores. He’d moved inside the cavernous ship, walking by the trucks and other transport being loaded, and received his room key. A single bunk in a claustrophobically small closet.

He remembered removing his shoes, then nothing.

Rubbing his face, he realized he could see the ceiling. There was
light coming through the small circular window. He looked at his watch and saw it was dawn. He’d been asleep for twelve hours—almost the entire journey.

He felt his stomach rumble and sat up, the rapid movement bringing on a remnant of vertigo from the drug. He steadied himself, praying it wasn’t something that did permanent damage. The feeling passed, and he put on his shoes. By his watch, they would be landing in less than an hour, and he had a lot of thinking to do. Decisions to make.

The attack at the café had been well planned, and it hadn’t been done by a bunch of Arabs. Whoever had done it had connections in Crete. Enough so to co-opt the staff and prepare an elaborate attack. It was amazing it hadn’t succeeded, and had all the hallmarks of a Taskforce operation.

But he’d been saved by the Taskforce. The woman from Decoy’s tape. Clearly, they were tracking him. Had somehow found him, even with his precautions. They were a threat, but it wasn’t they who’d set the plan in motion. Somehow, the false waiters had known he’d be in that café. But why had he been in that café?

Because he’d been following a target. Someone under the control of the killers from Qatar. They’d manipulated him to arrive, but even they wouldn’t be able to take over a café with that elaborate plot in twenty-four hours. No. It had to be someone local.
Nikos
. And that fucker would pay. One more for the target deck.

He stood, putting the 6P9 in the small of his back and testing his legs, finding them strong. He left the room, moving up the two decks to the cafeteria. He reached the open space of the deck, away from the narrow gangways, stepping over folks in sleeping bags, too cheap to fork over money for a cabin. He entered the cafeteria and took a quick survey, seeing families and loners all waiting to dock. He bought a pastry and a cup of coffee, wolfing down the first before touching the second.

He stood at the counter and methodically went over the room, searching for danger. He found it next to a black man in the corner.

A Caucasian woman sitting beside him, making small talk, dark glasses on her face and a scarf over her head. She made no outward show of even acknowledging Guy’s presence, but he knew who she was. It radiated off of her like heat from an open stove, a connection he’d found on a tape detailing a death that punctured his core.

It was the woman from Decoy’s video. The one who’d saved his life. She looked nothing like she had last night, but he knew. He had no idea how, but he felt it.

She was here, on the ferry, which meant the man she was talking with was a killer as well. Taskforce, with a skill equal to his own.

He considered his options. He was on a boat that might be blanketed with Taskforce Operators. It wasn’t like he could escape on the open ocean. The woman was already talking on a radio, alerting the team of his presence, of that he was sure. But she hadn’t done anything against him. On the contrary, she’d saved his life. And she’d killed that fuck who murdered Decoy.

He was sick of hiding. Tired of running. He was doing what was just. It might not have started that way, but he was sure it would end in his favor. He wanted absolution, and he was looking at the only entity that could give it to him.

He made his choice.

He strode right up to their table, seeing the black man’s eyes go wide. He raised a hand, saying, “No. Don’t.” The man relaxed, his hand at the small of his back, waiting. Guy turned to the woman and said, “Jennifer Cahill, right?”

She looked confused and said, “I’m sorry. I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

He said, “No. I’m not. I’ve seen your work. Decoy was my friend. I’m hoping you are as well.”