Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

Decoy jerked the wheel to the left, swerving around the last car that separated us from our target. I stopped trying to get Jennifer on the radio, focusing on the immediate mission.

Paseo de la Reforma was a four-lane boulevard in this area, with the inbound lanes separated from the outbound by a median ten meters wide and lined with trees. He could only go straight, the thoroughfare a channelized kill zone.

Decoy said, “Got stopped traffic ahead. Pedestrian crossing.”

I saw the right-side window of the sedan come down, and a man hung out with a pistol, firing our way. Decoy shouted and I flattened onto the seat, fighting with Knuckles and Blood to get as low as possible. I heard the windshield pop, the safety glass spiderwebbing from multiple rounds. The salvo done, Decoy snapped upright.

I got an up that nobody was hit, then strained to locate the sedan but was unable to see anything because of the spiderweb of cracks in the windshield. Decoy was driving with his head held just above the steering wheel, looking through a spot of clean glass.

“He’s hopped the curb, using the crosswalk.”

I hung my head out the window and saw the sedan plow into two people, flipping them over the hood before they spilled back onto the brick walkway. The sedan reached the far side and whipped around in front of the traffic stopped on the eastbound side, pedestrians screaming and diving out of the way.

“Follow him!”

We hit the curb at speed, the jolt bouncing everyone inside. Decoy kept the pedal buried, looking like a little old lady crouched behind the wheel, threading the path the sedan had created. We hit the east side before the light changed and found ourselves behind the target, nothing between us but road. Decoy swung into the lane and began to gain with each passing second, our horsepower greater than the sedan’s.

I said, “We gotta end this. Cops will be here soon.”

The sedan was rocketing forward way too fast, reaching seventy miles an hour before it hit the next pack of traffic. It slowed and began weaving, still going much faster than was safe. We followed, causing brake lights to flash as the two vehicles swam through the traffic like sharks in a school of goldfish.

We caught up with the sedan at the first traffic circle of the central district. The man popped out of the window again, aiming his pistol, and Decoy hammered the sedan’s right rear quarter panel. I saw the gun skip across the roof as the car was flung sideways into the traffic circle.

The driver broadsided a vehicle, regained control, and exited the circle, back on Paseo de la Reforma, now separated from us by a small cluster of cars. All Decoy could do was pound his horn in frustration.

We circled back onto Reforma and once again began to work our way forward, everyone straining to catch sight of the yellow sedan.

Blood, his head hanging out the left window, said, “Got him. Five cars ahead. Florencia traffic circle coming up.”

Continuing to weave, gaining ground, Decoy was slowed behind two cars driving the same pace. Frustrated, he jammed the accelerator, splitting the gap between them. He clipped the rearview of the car to our right, spraying the road with glitter before cutting back left, now two cars behind the sedan.

They saw us coming and accelerated, attempting the same maneuver. The sedan ground into the car on the left, then jerked to the right, hammering that vehicle before springing back to the left like a pinball. The two wrecked vehicles on either side slowed, and the sedan jumped forward into the Florencia traffic circle, moving with too much velocity, causing it to skid sideways.

I heard the squeal of tortured rubber and saw a panel truck, tires smoking, slam straight into the driver’s-side door of the sedan.

Decoy jammed the brakes and I shouted, “Go, go, go!”

The three of us exited at a run, Blood leaving Knuckles and me behind as he raced to the vehicle. I saw a man jump from the passenger side and sprint to the sidewalk, hitting Florencia and going south. Blood reached the vehicle, batting his way through the crowd. Knuckles and I diverted to the sidewalk, going after the man.

Blood came on the radio. “Vehicle is a dry hole.”

Which meant the man in front of us had it.

He was a block ahead but not running as fast as we were, probably because his idea of physical training was smoking a hookah pipe. We closed to a half of a block. I saw him glance over his shoulder, his eyes bugging out of his head with the realization that we were going to catch him. He reached a cross street called Londres and ran straight into a market. I couldn’t believe my good luck.

“Blood, Blood, this is Pike. Get your ass down here. He just entered Mercado Insurgentes. Take up your planned position.”

Knuckles said, “Same for me?”

“Yeah. I’ll go in and flush him.”

Mercado Insurgentes was a shopping area a block long, full of stalls no more than five feet across and walkways smaller than three feet in width. It was a maze. It was also the place I had preplanned to meet the Ghost, had I needed an off-site instead of his hotel room, which meant we knew the area much better than the target did because we’d already conducted a recce. Unlike him, we knew it only had two exits: one on Londres, which Blood would take, and one on Liverpool Street, where Knuckles would position.

Knuckles continued running flat out down the block, heading toward the southern Liverpool exit. I sprinted into the market, having little trouble finding my quarry due to the racket he was making trying to escape in the confined space.

The vendors were starting to swarm the congested pathways through the maze, wondering who the jackass was that was knocking over all the souvenir Santa Muerte statues and handcrafted jewelry. I slowed, not needing to rush now. Not wanting to highlight myself like he was doing.

I followed the noise, moving deeper into the market, taking turns by sound alone. Eventually, my target got smart and quit running blindly through the stalls. I started conducting a grid search, saying into my radio, “Are we set?”

“North set.”

“South set.”

“Roger all. Time to do some quail hunting. Stand by.”

I weaved through the stalls, peeking across and between the various tourist junk for sale, systematically going in one direction, then cutting back to another. Slicing the market into smaller and smaller sections of pie.

I caught a flash of movement two rows over and peeked between a shelf of jade necklaces, the owner knowing better than to ask if I was shopping. I saw my target, standing still and facing the other way, a laptop in his hand. I held my finger to my lips and looked at the shopkeeper. She nodded, not saying a word.

I exited, went to the nearest little alley of a walkway, and snuck behind him. He was now one row of shops over, and I could see the laptop through the back of another stall, behind a selection of Mayan calendars. He was up against a wall and could go no deeper into the market. I knew he was close to the southern exit, even if he didn’t. I decided to get him to the street instead of wrestling him to the ground here.

I moved right to the edge of the stall, squatted beneath the calendars, and said, “Stop! Stop right there!”

As expected, he jumped like I’d poked him with a cattle prod and took off running, paralleling the wall. I circled around and gave chase, letting him gain distance. “Knuckles, he’s five seconds out.”

“Roger all.”

I saw daylight, then heard the scuffle. I reached a small alcove that led to the street in time to see Knuckles bounce back as the man swung a small pocketknife at him. I heard the cough of a suppressed pistol, then the man collapsed, the laptop bouncing on the concrete.