Cliff Ryder - The Finish Line

"That's exactly what we're here for. Come on, we can fill each other in on the way."

David rose and walked slowly to the SUV, feeling his injuries flare with each step. He was grateful for the sweatshirt he had forced himself into. It would hide his wounds quite well, as long as neither of them reopened in the next couple of hours. As he approached the vehicle, the front passenger's door opened, and a man with coal-black hair, swarthy skin and a gleaming white smile slipped out, gesturing to the front seat with a flourish. "My name is Julio. Please, Mr. Vert, you and Jay will want to talk more, I'm sure."

"Thanks." David got into the seat and closed the door, trying not to sigh with relief as he sank into the butter-soft leather. Julio got in the back, sitting next to another man, this one a nondescript Caucasian with a buzz cut and deep brown eyes who looked far too young to be in this line of work. Julio introduced him as Fritz.

Jay slid behind the wheel, started the Range Rover up, and pulled out of the parking lot. "Where's she headed?" he asked immediately.

"I'm sure she's going to Brussels. It's the nearest large city with a transportation hub. There's a bug in her car, from the other team, that I left inside the vehicle for our use."

"Good. Julio, see what you can find on the standard frequencies. Of course, since we know the make and model of her car, we can also use the GPS tracking unit on it, as well."

David turned away so his flush wouldn't be as noticeable; he should have thought of that. "I thought they'd send someone from Paris to handle this."

"You haven't heard, then?" Jay continued as David frowned. "All activity at the Paris bureau has been halted pending an investigation of the incident earlier today. It seems that the backup operatives for your team were incapacitated at the station before the firefight broke out. That, and how the situation escalated, is going to cause some harsh questions up and down the line before this is all over."

"Are the operatives all right?" David asked.

"They're fine, but there were several civilians injured or killed in the standoff between the police and one of the hostile team members. Apparently he killed himself rather than be taken alive."

David nodded. "We didn't have any choice…"

Jay held up his hand. "At this point, I don't really care what happened back there. My goal — and yours, too — is to get the subject back in our control before they find her again. Put all the second-guessing and evaluation away. There will be plenty of time for it later. Now, tell me everything you know about our target, followed by everything you know about the hostiles."

David took a moment, mentally gathering what scattered bits of information he had observed over the past twelve hours, and started talking. "The woman's name is Maggie — Margaret Britaine. She's a data thief…"

As he spoke, he felt the man known as Jay absorbing every word he said, measuring it, sifting his comments for the useful data and discarding the rest. I only hope this helps us when the time comes, he thought as he told them everything he knew about her and the men they were almost sure to be going up against.

The directions Aragorn had given Maggie were perfect, taking her up the A7 to the outskirts of Brussels. On her left, Maggie saw a large hospital complex, but she was driving past it, out into the countryside. The road turned to a narrower two-lane street known only as Postweg, and Maggie slowed when she saw the first sign, scanning the right side of the road intently. She drove past what looked like a huge manufacturing plant, then saw green fields next to it, and a short row of tile-roofed, plain one-and two-story houses on her left.

On the other side of the road, just beyond where that row ended, was the building she was searching for. It sat alone, a larger dark gray house with what looked like a low stone fence marking its perimeter. As she approached, she saw a large hedgerow stretch off to the north, obviously the demarcation of an ample yard. There was a broad parking lot stretching the full length of the building's front side, and Maggie wondered if this was some kind of bed-and-breakfast for the area, even though there were no signs advertising it as such.

Maybe I can get something to eat before we go, she thought. Although she had eaten on the train, it seemed as if that hurried meal had been ages ago, and now that she would be safe as soon as she walked through that front door, her stomach growled in anticipation.

Parking the car, she engaged the emergency brake, then realized she had no way of turning off the Peugeot. There was no key, or key card, as many European cars used, and David's phone was probably in a junkyard by now. With a shrug, she left it running and got out, carrying her laptop. If anyone comes along, they can have it, she thought wearily. She climbed the wide concrete steps, and tried the heavy, dark brown, wooden door, pleased when it swung open toward her.

Inside, Maggie was greeted by the odors of must and rot. She stood in a small foyer that opened into a common area, with a small desk built into the wall to her right. What had once been a cozy, furnished living room years ago was now taken over by neglect and decay. The matching wingback chairs were faded, with large water spots on the arms and seat from the leaking ceiling. The small table in the middle of the room was also dilapidated, its once smooth finish now bumpy and cracked. A narrow hallway led to the back half of the house, but Maggie stayed where she was, unwilling to explore the unfamiliar surroundings any further. The air was as cold as it was outside, and Maggie wrapped her arms around herself as she walked farther into the room.

She felt a sudden chill at being there. Her overtaxed mind raced, thinking up horrible things that might have happened to the occupants of the house before it was deserted. Then she got a firm mental grip on herself. Stop jumping at shadows. It's the perfect place to meet without anyone else taking an interest in what's going on.

"Aragorn? It's me, Mags. You can come out anytime now." Her voice sounded loud in the silence, and Maggie kept looking around, wondering where he was. If this is his idea of a joke, it's in pretty fuckin' poor taste…

"Hey, you." She recognized Aragorn's voice before he stepped out of the shadows in the hallway, his tall, lean body clad in a long, dark brown, leather trench coat. On most other people it would have seemed like an affectation, but he wore it well, and the garment suited his shock of unruly dark blond hair and hazel eyes. Once, Maggie had been attracted to him, but she had soon realized that Aragorn was nothing like his fictional namesake — he was a vain hedonist, a hacker who loved to be the center of attention, and often would go to outlandish lengths to put the spotlight on himself. He also had a powerful attraction to money, which, of course, was why he was here for her. Still, at that moment, he looked like a divine vision, and Maggie ran to him and hugged him hard.

"Damn, it's good to see you. You have no idea what I've gone through just to get here…"

Maggie trailed off, aware that something was wrong. Aragorn wasn't returning her hug, in fact, he had stiffened at her touch. "Hey, Gorn, what's wrong?"

"I'm afraid you're not out of the woods yet, Maggie." He disentangled himself from her embrace and stepped around her into the foyer, revealing another man who'd been standing behind him, now coming forward into the gray afternoon light.

"Hello again, Ms. Britaine. You certainly have a knack for getting yourself out of unpleasant situations. But that all ends now." The grim, unsmiling face of the man who had tried to kidnap her at the train station — a face she had hoped never to see again except in her nightmares — was right in front of her again.