Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

Josef’s shot was silenced, but Mustapha’s made a loud bang. Nora was on her feet, aiming the SIG Sauer at Mustapha, aware that he hadn’t reacted at all to the shot Josef had fired, but Josef sank to his knees. She shouted and ran forward across the room, closing the distance between her and the men. She was too far away, she knew; she’d never be able to hit Mustapha from here. She fired anyway, grateful that it barely made a sound. Had the people out on the runway heard Mustapha’s gunshot?

The big man looked over in her direction, peering into the darkness, swinging his gun around. Nora kept approaching, and she fired again. The second round struck him full in the chest, but he got off a loud shot before he fell backward, half in and half out of the doorway. She was still running, still firing. She arrived above him to deliver one final round into his forehead. He lay there staring up, the rain pelting his startled face. Only then, as she gazed down at him, did she notice the sharp stinging in her left arm.

She was aware of the pain, and of the two men who now stared from beyond the glass wall of the office. She glanced outside at the plane, aware that everyone was inside it now and the door was closing. She was aware that Josef was moaning, attempting to rise. Most of all, she was aware of the eyes staring up at her from the man she had just killed.

She dropped the weapon and bent down, grabbing Mustapha’s nearest leg with her good right arm and dragging his heavy corpse inside the hangar. She slammed the door and leaned back against it, looking over at Josef. He was smiling at her as he struggled to get up, but then his eyes closed and he fell.

Nora knelt beside him. He was alive but unconscious. Outside on the tarmac, the engines of the plane came to life with a powerful roar that managed to override the deafening patter of rain on the roof. In mere minutes it would be taking off, rising up into the wet sky, bearing its dreadful cargo away to be utilized for horrors beyond her comprehension. Those people were on their way to destroy the world.

And she, alone, was left to stop them.

Jeff would know what to do, but he was too far away, in the car in the forest. Josef had been struck on the right side of his chest near his shoulder. The bullet must still be in there, and his fall had reactivated the bleeding in the wound below it. Nora had no idea how much blood he’d lost, but the small pool on the concrete floor beside him didn’t bode well. A swift glance at the two men in the office told her that they would only try to detain her, and they’d succeed. She ignored them.

A phone? In the office with the Cowpers. Did Mustapha have a cellphone? She quickly searched the body, rummaging through his pockets. She found a wallet and coins and a ring of keys-one of them must be for the Aston Martin-but nothing else. No matter; again, any call to the authorities would be too late. She didn’t know whom to call anyway.

The roar of the engines outside grew in volume, then subsided. The plane was moving away on the tarmac. She stood up and threw the door open, peering out through the rain. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, but from the condition of the sky, it might as well have been midnight. She saw the lights on the wings of the aircraft moving slowly, steadily off down the runway on her left, inland, which would be west. Nora looked the other way. Yes, that was the North Sea; she could just make out the gray water in the distance beyond the runway. They would take off in that direction.

She pictured it in her mind. The plane would taxi down to the far end of the runway and turn around. Then it would glide forward, accelerating as it moved. The runway wasn’t that long, not even a mile, so the pilot would need most of its length to get up to speed for the takeoff. Which meant the plane would still be racing along the ground when it reached this spot, the halfway point directly in front of her, where it had been sitting moments ago.

She looked around the hangar. A Cessna twin-engine and a Sopwith Camel, or whatever the hell it was; she had no idea how to operate them. There was a pickup truck outside, next to the gas tank, but that would belong to the two men in the office, who were still shouting and banging on the glass. They weren’t about to give her the keys, and she didn’t have her husband’s talent for hot-wiring. Which left only…

She looked down at the key ring in her hand. Oh God! she thought. Nora, what the hell are you doing?

On the floor beside her, Josef Abrams stirred. He moaned, rolling onto his side. “Mrs. Baron?”

Nora knelt beside him. “I’m here, Josef, but I have to leave you for a while. Don’t move. I’ll take you to a doctor as soon as I get back.” If I get back, she thought.

“You have to-you have to stop them,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Nora said. “I know. Hush now. Be still. I’ll be right back.” She looked down at his pained face, remembering the photo of the pretty young woman in Israel. She touched his hot cheek briefly with her hand, and then she was up and running.

Mustapha’s bullet had grazed her left arm above the elbow, and she could feel the throbbing pain of it as blood trickled down her forearm under her jacket. Oh well, she was alive and mobile, and there wasn’t any time to examine it now. She ran out into the rain, around the side of the hangar toward the low-slung gold car. James Bond’s car, she thought. Bill Howard’s car, his status symbol, his reward to himself for selling out his own country, and hers. She nearly ran to the left side of the car, then pivoted and headed for the right-side door. This was an English car, and everything was the other way around. Oh God, oh God, oh God…

She was in the car, fumbling with the keys. She found the correct one and felt around for the ignition. There! The engine came alive. She felt for the gearshift, wincing as the pain shot down her left arm. Another stick shift, of course. Left and forward for first gear.

The plane reached the end of the runway and turned around. She couldn’t hear it from this distance, but she knew its engines were racing, building power. In order to be effective, her next moves would have to be perfectly timed. It’s just like the theater, she thought. I’m starring in a new play called Mrs. John Doe , and this is opening night. Closing night too. One performance only.

Nora sat in the car, holding her breath, thinking about her family. She recalled the face of her daughter as a baby, a toddler, a teenager, and as she was today, age twenty. Dana was a strong young woman, a remarkable human being with all of life ahead of her. Then Nora thought of Jeff, her husband, her lover, her soulmate, the only man in the world. I don’t know if I’ll ever see either of you again, she silently told them, but please know that I loved you. Always remember that.

She waited until she saw the lights on the wings slowly begin moving forward. She couldn’t see the aircraft itself from this distance in the rainy darkness, only those tiny lights, and this was a good thing: If she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her.

The pounding in her chest caused a wrenching pain with each heartbeat, and she had to force her paralyzed hands to function. She gripped the steering wheel tightly as she eased her left foot up from the clutch and her right foot down on the accelerator, gliding smoothly forward. The wingtip lights approached on her left, gaining speed as they came at her. She pushed the door beside her open as she rolled slowly, carefully out into the center of the runway. She stopped the car, cut the engine, and swung her legs out onto the tarmac. She launched herself up and out of the low-slung vehicle, but she didn’t find her balance; she lurched clumsily forward, throwing out her hands to break her fall, sprawling facedown on the wet asphalt. A numbing jolt of agony shot up her injured arm, so intense that she almost lost consciousness. She drew in a great gulp of air, clearing her mind.