Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

It was then that he felt the icy breeze skirt his ankles and send an ache through his bad leg. He turned to find a trim, dark man standing ten feet away. The man wore a pea coat and a longshoreman’s cap, and he held a very large, very sharp carpet cutter in one hand.

“Hey, Frankie.”

A picture of Jim Malloy and his wife flashed through Connor’s mind. Fear gripped him. Still, he reacted as taught. Reaching into his pocket, he drew the compact Ruger. 380 and unlocked the safety with a flick of his thumb. He raised the pistol and took aim. But suddenly his eyes wouldn’t focus. His arm began to waver as the pain in his chest worsened. He tried to squeeze the trigger, but his hand would not obey.

And then it was too late. The man was on him, knocking his arm away, flinging the pistol to the ground.

“Just you and me here, Frankie,” he said, his face inches away. “Time for a little fun.”

The intruder grabbed Connor’s arm and drew it toward him, ripping back the shirtsleeve. “Soft as a baby’s belly. We’re not going to have any problem at all.”

Connor tried to talk, but his breath wouldn’t come. His entire body felt as if it were being crushed inside a vise.

“This won’t hurt a bit,” said the intruder.

Connor watched the blade touch his wrist.

There was a sound like someone spitting and something tore into Connor’s shoulder and the man stopped what he was doing. His eyes widened, and he said, “What the…?” Connor looked down and saw that his own shoulder was bleeding, and he knew that somehow he had been shot. And then blood streamed from the man’s mouth and he fell to the floor and didn’t move.

Emma Ransom stood at the top of the hidden stairwell, a silenced pistol in her extended hand.

“Hello, Frank. How long have I been telling you to put a proper lock on that shed?”

“I didn’t betray you,” said Connor.

“I know that now,” said Emma, hurrying forward and kneeling at his side. “Sit down. Take a deep breath.”

Connor collapsed into a chair. “How did you find out?”

“I’ve been a busy girl. All those dirty tricks you taught me came in handy.”

“What the hell’s going on? Did we get the bomb? Was Haq inside that goddamned hangar? Is Jonathan alive? They haven’t told me a thing.”

Emma opened his shirt and examined the wound. “Yes, Jonathan’s alive. He’s on a flight to New York right now.”

“What about the warhead and Haq?”

Her eyes rose to his for a second, no longer, then skipped back to his shoulder. “I’m sorry about this, Frank. I didn’t have any subsonic rounds. Usually I would have gone for a head shot, but I couldn’t afford a miss. One of the rounds went right through the bastard.” Emma pulled a wallet from the corpse’s back pocket. “Jacob Taylor,” she said, reading from his driver’s license. “Know him?”

Connor said that he didn’t, but he knew who had sent him.

Emma found the killer’s phone and scrolled through the numbers. “You’re right,” she said. “Goes to show you never can trust lawyers.”

She texted a short message and sent it.

“What did you do?” Connor asked.

“I told the bitch you were dead. Now stay put.” Rising, she went to the bathroom and came back with hand towels. She folded one neatly and pressed it against the bullet wound. “You shouldn’t have used Jonathan.”

“He was the best choice.”

“Even so.”

“He did a good job.”

“He always does.”

Connor tried to sit up, but a wave of pain overwhelmed him. “Why are you here?”

Emma sat back and stared at him. Her cheeks were still wind-kissed from her trek in the mountains, and her eyes shone as if lit from within by an eerie green light. “Insurance,” she said finally.

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“You think saving my life is your ticket back?”

Emma shook her head, smiling earnestly. “It’s not about work. We both know I’m not coming back. I saved your life because I like you.”

“I can fix things.”

“Not this time, you can’t. Besides, I want out. I have to stop while part of my soul is still alive.” She stood, handing Connor a clean towel to hold against his shoulder. “You need to get to a hospital. I don’t know where that bullet went, and I think you’ve had a wee bit of a heart attack.”

Connor worked it all through in his mind, and a new and terrible knowledge imprinted itself on his features. If Emma was here, it could be for only one reason. “Haq,” he said. “God, no-you won’t let him do it. You’ll stop him?”

Emma leaned down and kissed Connor on the cheek. “I’ll always be your girl, Frank.”

“Yeah,” said Connor. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Emma headed to the concealed stairwell. “You’ll give me a few minutes?”

Connor nodded. He wanted to say “Good luck” or “Godspeed” or even just “Thanks,” but he knew that something had changed. Emma was no longer a prize to be fought over, an asset coveted by every side. She had broken too many rules to go back. She knew that, and her actions said she no longer gave a damn. She had turned her back on all of it. From here on out, Emma Ransom was on her own.

A rogue.

And this, Connor realized with a chill, made her more dangerous than ever before.

The information passed to the air force attache at the United States Embassy in Jerusalem originated from a small but respected department within Mossad. An agent had knowledge that a certain wanted terrorist, currently the target of a top secret operation run out of the U.S. Department of Defense, had boarded an aircraft in Islamabad belonging to the United States Army Materiel Command inbound to Ramstein AFB, Germany. Tail number N14997. Said terrorist was reported to be in possession of a small-yield nuclear warhead. The information was graded high: actionable.

From Jerusalem, the information was forwarded to the commander of United States Air Forces in Europe, and then on to USAF intelligence at Headquarters Air Force, Washington, D.C., the Central Intelligence Agency, the Office of Nuclear Energy of the U.S. Department of Energy, and the International Atomic Energy Agency in Vienna. Four hours elapsed before the information reached the hands of the commander of Ramstein AFB, Germany. By then it was almost too late.

Ten vehicles swarmed the C-141 Starlifter as it began its takeoff at the head of runway 29. The condor-winged aircraft braked violently, smoke billowing from its tires. Military police hit the ground with weapons raised, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. A mobile staircase was pushed against the fuselage. The forward door opened, and the police rushed inside.

All this Sultan Haq watched with tense detachment from a separate aircraft parked a good distance across the tarmac. Sitting back in the plush seats, he sipped from his glass of ice-cold Coca-Cola and swallowed another painkiller.

“How is your injury?” asked the handsome, elegantly dressed man seated across the cabin.

“I’ve had worse,” said Haq. “It will not affect me.”

“I am pleased to hear that,” said Prince Rashid. “I imagine there will be a delay until we are allowed to take off. Get some rest. Tomorrow promises to be an eventful day.”

Pakistan International Airlines Flight 333 outbound from Islamabad and Karachi to New York City cruised at an air speed of 590 knots at 39,000 feet over the snow-covered plains of central Europe. Arrival was foreseen at seven a.m. Eastern Standard Time, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, with weather in New York forecast to be in the mid-thirties with snow flurries.