Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

Exasperated, I said, “What the fuck? You took him down because of that little toothpick?”

“Asshole was trying to kill me.”

I couldn’t argue with that. I said, “Get Decoy here with the vehicle and lock that door leading in. You get to clean up your mess.”

He grunted something and I grinned at him, snatching up the laptop, knowing we’d just accomplished the mission. Well, the half that mattered the most, anyway.

I opened it and saw something that looked like an old-fashioned stereo face. I ran my finger over the track pad and a pop-up appeared, saying the computer was locked for “CareBear” and to enter a password or use a biometric thumb pad at the base of the keyboard.

I waited until it disappeared, then studied the screen. All the switches and dials were in the off position, with an upper box labeled “Satellite Acquisition.” The number in the box was zero.

So we’re good.

I looked at the bottom of the screen, seeing another box labeled, “Next Disruption.” Beside it was a clock showing eleven hours and twenty-two minutes.

And it was counting down.

65

The Ghost watched the fractured response from the security personnel at the museum entrance and knew checking the locker wouldn’t be an issue. The explosions and gunfire had caused some reaction, but for the most part the tourists wandering around the exhibits simply looked at each other in confusion. Which is exactly what the security personnel did. Eventually, they started moving inside, but apart from the initial fight at the temple, there was no chaos. No screaming or running amok.

He assumed Pelón and the American were long gone, and he would have been as well except he needed the passport. He left the museum trailing another group of tourists, the woman’s pistol hidden in his laptop case.

He knew he should have killed her, should have used her suppressed weapon to punch a hole in her head, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Her actions had been incredibly brave, and in truth, were something he never would have expected to see from an American. From an enemy.

She had risked her life to ensure his safety. Had shown compassion he would have never given if their positions had been reversed, along with the courage to use it in the face of great bodily harm. It was an act that had confounded him.

Despite what she’d done, he knew he should have taken her life. She was still the enemy, and the cold, reptilian part of his nature was chastising him for his weakness. But he had been here before.

A year ago, he had seen a close friend begin to crumble from the pressures of a mission and had understood he should eliminate the weak link if he wanted to succeed. But he could not, and because of it, he’d ended up in the hands of Mr. Pink.

He’d often wondered what had happened to his friend, wondered if he was living a life of isolation in a strange American prison like he had been, but he had never regretted the decision. It was his choice to make, as with the woman, and his life was worth less than his honor. Flesh and blood were frail and fleeting. Honor was forever.

He could kill without remorse, but he did so for a purpose. In his world, betrayal was a way of life, just like the mission he’d been given by Mr. Pink. The actions of the woman, on the other hand, were a surprise.

She would return to hunt him, he knew, and regardless of her actions, he would still owe her a debt. And he understood he would never repay it. If she stood in his way in the future, if she attempted to capture him again, he would kill her just as quickly as anyone else. The dichotomy caused no conflict in his mind. It was what it was.

War.

The tourist group he was following continued on to the street, and he veered to the left, traveling downstairs to the parking area. He saw a pack of schoolkids waiting for a bus, all excitedly talking to each other and bouncing around, exasperating their chaperone. On the wall adjacent to the stop was a bank of small lockers, designed to hold umbrellas, purses, and wallets.

His key said seventy-two. He ran his eyes down the row, found the number, and unlocked the door. He pulled it open and smiled. Inside was a Lebanese passport, just as promised.

He took it and began retracing his steps to the park, this time staying away from the four-lane road and moving down the paths that meandered throughout, thinking about his next steps.

The killer with the scarred face had taken his money, but he still had the credit cards. He could withdraw as much cash as they allowed as a cushion, then buy a plane ticket home with them. He thought for a minute and realized the trap he was setting for himself.

The Americans knew the name on the card, knew the account, and they’d be watching. He would need to buy many different plane tickets to confuse them. If he bought enough, spread throughout several days, he’d increase his odds of escaping. Perhaps he’d head to Europe first, while they staged for a flight to Lebanon.

The thought reminded him that he’d have to ditch the credit cards the minute he left Mexico. Buying the tickets here would be a risk, but using the al-Qaeda credit card at any final destination would be suicide. And he had no access to cash because that devil had decided to empty his al-Qaeda bank account. All he would have was the measly amount he could draw on the cards.

The truth rankled him. Why should that man get all of his money? Why didn’t he agree to the purchase price?

He reached the first intersection and saw a sitio taxi stand, for government-regulated cabs that wouldn’t attempt to rob him after he got inside. Not that that would matter. He was on the run now, and anyone who stood in his way, be it for petty cash or his capture, would die.

He gave the cabby the name of a hotel he’d seen on his walking tours earlier, far away from where he’d stayed before with Mr. Pink and Mr. Black, in a decidedly less touristy part of town. He secretly hoped the cabby would try something. Give him some reason to vent his frustration.

The man looked at his thick glasses and started to grin, intent on fleecing him for more money than a simple drive to a hotel was worth. Then he saw the eyes behind the glasses. He turned around without a word.

In the back, the Ghost opened the computer he’d taken off of the table. On the screen was Pelón’s bank account, still open with the password in place. He stared at the Web page, considering his options. This man held the key to his future. The chance at a new life, with money that was rightfully his. He didn’t care if Pelón kept half, but it wasn’t fair for him to have it all.

He tapped some keys, ensuring the password was saved in the computer registry and would automatically be filled in when he reached this page again. He knew he couldn’t transfer any money without the digital token Pelón had, but that was okay. He would see any transactions the man made and could track him down. Could find him.

When he did, he’d have a discussion about sharing the money. About giving the Ghost what was rightfully his. Get him to use the bank’s digital token to transfer cash into a new account. One that would give the Ghost a new life.

Pelón wouldn’t do so out of goodwill, the Ghost knew. After their brief encounter, he understood the man was like a rabid dog, looking for something to bite. And he had the skill to bite deep. The thought brought no fear. The Ghost knew his own capabilities well. If he didn’t want to transfer the money, it would be okay. All the Ghost needed was the digital token.

If he had to pry it from the killer’s dead hand, he would.

66

The sicario watched the people exit the cab, none looking remotely like Arthur Booth. He checked his watch, seeing that he’d been waiting for close to two hours.