Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

“Hiding, blending, and deceiving,” Kyle said. “Basic sniper tactics.”

“Yes. And the CIA still cannot be involved. Hall would still ruin a lot of networks if he thinks we are in the game.”

“He doesn’t want to do that. He knows you guys have no control over me, which is why he has not been leaning on you to stop me. And if he plans on living a long and happy life, he definitely does not want to ruin such a good insurance policy. You guys would be all over his ass in a blink to limit the damage.” Swanson looked at him steadily. “The Swiss won’t let me have a gun. Will you give me yours?”

“Absolutely not.” Then Brand brought a small box out of his briefcase and pushed it across the table. “However, you can do me a great favor. I was to give this material to Agent Carson at our dinner that never took place. Perhaps you could deliver it for me when you see her again.”

Swanson put down his ceramic coffee mug and opened the lid. Inside the box was the small leather wallet with Lauren’s badge and credentials, and resting on a cushion of white foam was her pistol, with a full clip of ammunition.

“Good luck, Gunny,” Mark Brand said and extended his hand.

Kyle shook it, and his lips curled into a smile. “Thanks. Things just got a lot better.”

L AUREN C ARSON HOVERED JUSTbelow consciousness, in a dull black drug haze that had begun when she was pulled into the van and held down while someone popped a needle into a vein. A few heartbeats later, the drug had circulated throughout her body and she was down and out. Now she was coming to the surface, being brought up slowly and expertly by the woman who had helped kidnap her. She was thirsty beyond belief, her mouth cottony and her body dehydrated. She sighed aloud when she saw light for the first time, but her eyes were still unfocused. She worked her jaw slightly and said, “Water…” A paper cup was lifted to her lips, and a hand held the back of her head to help her drink a few swallows. Then it was taken away. Jim Hall watched, then nodded to his woman helper, who had been chosen for the kidnap mission because of her training as a military nurse. Her portion of the job was almost done, and she would walk away with ten thousand euros. The nurse picked up a filled syringe off a clean towel, found a vein in Lauren’s arm, and put in the needle, slowly pushing in a drug to speed the recovery.

Lauren sensed feeling returning to her arms and legs, which she still could not move. She lifted up slowly from worse to bad to better and heard a familiar gentle voice say, “Come on, Lauren, girl. Time to get up.”

Her memory was scrambled because the drug still had her in its strong grip, just not as tightly. A woman’s hands worked around her. A nurse? Am I in a hospital? Her clothes were being adjusted, shoes wiggled onto her feet. The nurse’s and stronger hands, those of a man, helped her into a sitting position. Nausea swept over her momentarily, and she gagged the fluid back down. She was given more water.

The calm voice again. “Okay, Lauren. It’s almost over. We’re going to see Kyle now.”

Kyle! Yes. Kyle would take care of her. The mention of his name brought hope, and she strained to stand, helped by the guiding hands. The tendrils of the drug still held her back from fully functioning.

The man and the woman took her weight as they guided her through a short, dark hallway and into an elevator, which took them all down. Even at the slow rate, Lauren had to struggle not to throw up. It clanked to a halt, and she heard the male voice say, “Go on down and get the car ready. I’ve got her now.” Flat heels made sharp snapping noises in the hallway.

Light. A lot of light, shining on Lauren, a spotlight? She waddled closer, held gently by the man. “A few more steps, Lauren. Be strong. Kyle’s just on the other side of the door.” She blinked several times and ran her tongue across her dry lips. There was a shadow in the light, a silhouette forming, something familiar about the solid shape. Kyle? Kyle had come to take her out of the hospital? I’m not wearing makeup. What will he think when he sees me like this? My hair is a mess. Will he still love me? Tears began to well in her eyes and roll onto her cheeks.

“Wait here for a minute, Lauren, and get some strength. Just another minute. I promise.”

She knew the voice now and leaned against the man. “Okay, Jim. Thank you.”

T HE ADDRESS THAT J IMHall had given was an apartment house in the Herrengasse section of Bern, a stone building surrounded by a thick wall, with knotted brown vines climbing over it at some points. Swanson walked all the way around the place. The wall was merely decorative, with no gates. A wide entrance at the rear opened into an alleyway to facilitate off-street, underground parking for the tenants. The front was a spacious, well-maintained walkway rising to a single line of stone steps up to a set of doors. Carved stone bears flanked the entranceway, and polished steel banisters extended down the stairs for assistance during the bitter winters. He closed his right hand around the pistol in his jacket pocket and went up past the bears and cautiously pushed open the door.

It was a weather portal, an air lock that helped hold in the heat, a seven-by-seven sanctuary from the weather. The floor was of well-worn marble with a rubber mat on which to wipe shoes and boots. A cheap painting was on one white wall, and on the opposite side was a brass line of call buttons for the individual residents and a set of mailboxes. In front of him was another pair of doors, tall and heavy with a rectangle of thick glass in each. The doors were secured by heavy interior bolts that could be activated by a tenant. There were no knobs. It reeked of Swiss solidity, dependability, and safety. Kyle thought those doors, which seemed so inviting to visitors, could probably stop a cruise missile. The glass certainly was not bulletproof but was made up of several thick layers, even more protection from the weather.

He peered through, using his hand as a shade, and saw three figures step from a small elevator and into the hallway. Two women, one man, all in enough shadow to distort their images. One of the women walked away, and the other two people turned to face him.

Jim Hall was holding Lauren tightly around the waist, supporting her weight. She seemed dazed, hardly able to walk, but Kyle saw no blood. That was good. He took his pistol from the pocket, racked in a cartridge, and held it by his left side, out of sight beneath the glass. He saw Hall say something to Lauren but could not hear the words.

Hall extended his right arm and touched a button, and the hum of an intercom hissed in the entranceway. He then leaned down and gave her a slight kiss on the cheek. “Here she is, Kyle. A deal is a deal.”

Hall threw Lauren against the door so hard that she hit it and bounced back; then there was a clap of thunder and she slammed into the door a second time. Her eyes flew wide in surprise and shock, then hurt and pain. As she slid down, Jim Hall pulled the trigger again and put a bullet into her upper right shoulder. A spray of crimson smeared the window, and Kyle watched her slide to the floor.

He screamed and fired a shot through the glass, which webbed out to absorb the impact but did not shatter. It was bulletproof! “I’m coming, Lauren!” he yelled, then began punching every buzzer on the call board, shouting in English, German, and French for somebody to unlock the damned door. A girl is dying in the foyer. Open the door and call the police.