Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

Dellinger’s face flinched. “How do you know about him?”

“He bumped into me as he was coming into the place and I was going out. He said, ‘Sorry, man’ as we passed.”

Dellinger’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you worry about Runtso. And by the way, there were a lot of other people killed and wounded that night, not just two Americans.”

“Yeah, I know. I was there, remember?”

“One more thing you haven’t considered. There’s another corpse that’s attached to your name, at least by extension.”

“Who?”

“Do you know who Gaspar Peña is?”

“Never heard of him.”

“He was with the CNI. Brossa’s boss. They found him a few hours ago, extra crispy. He was handcuffed to the steering wheel of his burned-out Audi R8 Decennium, which is one helluva car and about as shitty a way to die as I can think of.”

“You know I have nothing to do with that.”

“I know it. You know it. And wherever the hell Peña is, he knows it, too. But how long will it take the Spanish authorities to figure it out as well?”

Jack shrugged, Dellinger’s logic falling on him like a heavy woolen blanket.

“So, what’s it gonna be, Jack? Sit on your ass in a Spanish gray-bar hotel for the next six months and get your gringo ass molly-whopped by local talent until they finally cut you loose? Or do you want to walk out of here a relatively free man and get back to your life in the good ol’ US of A?”

Jack folded his hands together, rattling the chains, thinking. He knew the moment he left Spain, the case really was closed. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that there were still a few loose threads that he needed to tug on to get closure.

But Dellinger was right. All the cards were stacked against him. The best possible outcome was that he’d waste the next several weeks, if not months, in jail, unable to do any kind of investigative work anyway. The worst case was too terrible to consider—somehow convicted of one or more killings, even if only by association or intent. False convictions weren’t exactly a myth, even in Western democracies.

Worse, several weeks in jail—innocent or guilty—meant he’d be off the shelf as far as The Campus was concerned. And for what? The case really was closed. Renée’s killers were dead. So were Brossa’s. And knowing his father, there wasn’t any chance he wouldn’t get involved at some point to get his oldest son out of the hoosegow, especially if he was innocent. If POTUS got involved, that surely meant his identity as the son of SWORDSMAN would be revealed. That would definitely kill his future as an undercover operative with The Campus.

“Okay, you win. Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”

Dellinger grinned. “Smart boy.”

He pounded on the steel door with the palm of his hand, telling the guard to let them out.

In a few hours, Jack would be somewhere over the Atlantic, far from Spain, a free man.

54

True to his word, Dellinger got Jack out of jail almost as fast as he could walk him through the front doors and into the fresh air and sunshine.

An unmarked Guardia Civil Nissan SUV stood at the curb with the rear door opened. The international business intern Jack had spooked earlier stood by it holding Jack’s leather satchel stuffed with his clothes and his laptop bag.

“Who told you you could break into my place?” Jack said, still reeking and disheveled like a man who’d just broken out of a dumpster.

The college-age kid blanched at Jack’s tone and pointed at Dellinger. “He sent me.”

“We didn’t have time to waste,” Dellinger said, motioning for Jack to get in the car as the Guardia Civil plainclothes detective climbed into the driver’s seat.

“How’d you know I’d take your offer?”

“Because I figured you weren’t stupid. Get in. We’re late for your flight.”

Jack snagged his satchel and laptop from the intern and fell into the backseat next to Dellinger. They slammed the doors behind them as the Nissan rocketed toward the airport.

—

Dellinger and the Guardia Civil detective-driver both escorted Jack into the giant glass and steel Barcelona–El Prat airport southwest of the city. Thanks to his Spanish escort, Jack and Dellinger were both passed through to the front of the long check-in and security lines. Their movements were tracked by the angry, jealous eyes of the passengers lined up like cattle in pens waiting for slaughter.

Jack was then led to his departure gate and ushered to the gate agent’s desk. The agent was forced to reopen the jetway when the detective flashed his badge, though it was against company policy to do so.

Dellinger offered Jack a firm hand that was as much a warning as a pleasantry along with “Good luck, son,” before Jack disappeared into the jetway.

The Spanish detective escorted Jack to his seat, turning curious heads as they strode through the wide first-class aisles and back to the narrow ones in coach. Jack stuffed his carry-on into the crowded overhead and shoved his laptop under the seat in front of him. He then fell into his chair and buckled in. The detective flashed Jack one last angry glance before he turned around and marched back off the plane.

The middle-aged flight attendant for Jack’s section was a real pro. She hid her concern over Jack, unlike the passengers near him who squirmed uncomfortably in their narrow seats, trying desperately not to look at—or smell—the large, bearded man suddenly thrust into their presence by a police escort.

Jack perused the drink card, searching for something hard.

It was going to be a long damn flight.

—

After three glasses of Jameson Irish whiskey, Jack was finally numb to his frustration and grief.

He felt like shit that Brossa had died but at least he’d killed the asswipe that did it. How he killed the man with a single punch to the face still confused him. According to Dellinger, the Spaniards would get around to an autopsy in the next few weeks, and he promised to let Jack know what the results were as if that was some sort of consolation over Bykov’s death. It wasn’t.

Jack didn’t need any.

Now winging his way back home, Jack was leaving both physically and emotionally drained. Renée was dead and nothing would change that but at least the people who claimed responsibility for her death were all dead, along with the man Jack believed to be the real bomber, even if he wasn’t with Brigada Catalan.

He hated to admit it but the case really was closed. It felt like a betrayal of Renée and especially Brossa but he had done everything he could in the short time he had. His heavy eyelids began to flutter. He reclined his seat as far as it would go and gave in to the sleep that had eluded him for the last twenty-four hours.

Maybe it was the booze or something else that fueled his dream but Jack found himself back inside L’avi. This time the crowded restaurant was full of street protesters jammed in so close that Jack could hardly breathe. He fought his way toward the exit, desperate to escape the suffocating mass of flesh. Just as he reached the cool, fresh air pouring in at the doorway, he bumped into a long-haired Runtso, only this time, it was Jack who said, “Sorry, man,” instead of the shorter, hapless man. Runtso said nothing but only stared for a long moment at Jack with eyes full of unspeakable sadness, then finally he turned away, trudging in slow motion—not into a crowded restaurant,but instead into a shrieking wall of fire, his body vaporizing in flames so hot that it made Jack’s skin tingle.

55

KNOXVILLE, TENNESSEE

Parsons was beside herself. She rubbed her bare arms, her skin literally tingling with anticipation.

In eleven hours and forty-eight minutes, she would make history.