Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

I heard a bunch of voices in the background and realized what was going on. I said, “Am I on speaker?”

“Yeah, Pike, you are. What’s the situation? We have about five minutes.”

I went into politically correct mode. “Sir, we are about to enter an establishment and locate the man using the identified computer. If he is the target, we will not get out clean.”

I’d made the call to go after the MAC address and ignore Peter Scarborough. It would be a defining moment in my life, either good or bad. If I was right, I would be a hero. If I was wrong, I would be the scapegoat of the year. Something I was used to, honestly. I’d learned early that it was easy to second-guess decisions but damn hard to make them.

I heard a crescendo of voices, then Kurt saying, “Hang on, damn it! Let him speak. Pike, we need to know the odds of success. We’re in the window for abort. We don’t make the call in the next five minutes, and we won’t have the ability to do so. Can you stop it?”

What the hell? What kind of question is that? I have no idea.

“Sir, I can’t predict that. I’m calling to ask for domestic authority. I’m about to enter a crowded establishment, and I’m going to do some damage. I don’t have time for surgical. It’ll be caveman. I’ll get it done, but I want to make sure that’s what you want. What the Oversight Council wants.”

Someone from the back said, “Yes, yes. Tell him to go.” That was followed by someone else saying, “Wait, he’s going to compromise the Taskforce and we don’t even know if it’s worth it. What the hell are the odds of success?”

I thought the place sounded like a junior high dance, with about as much intelligent conversation coming out. I said, “Colonel Hale, this is Pike. What is the call?”

The sounds evaporated, and his voice came on. “You’re off speaker. Pike, we have three minutes. I’m recommending abort. Don’t assault. We’ll live with the repercussions.”

I said, “Sir, three minutes means those pilots are already in the envelope. Already in danger. And the repercussions are much, much greater than some strike against Syria. We lose GPS, and the whole country falls into chaos.”

“Pike, that’s going to happen regardless. We don’t need to throw good money after bad. Compromising you will only cause the problem to be worse.”

I looked at Jennifer, thinking of what I was sacrificing if the call was a mistake. I decided Kurt was right. There was no way I was going to trash my life based on some wish that the guy was inside and could stop the clock. If I were wrong—which I probably was—I might be going to jail at the same time our economy collapsed. Why throw gasoline on the fire?

Jennifer was staring intently at me, reading the hesitation in my voice. She said, “Pike, the Taskforce can burn. It’s just an organization. Do it. The guy is here. You have an instinct for this. I know it. I believe it. Don’t worry about us. Don’t worry about the repercussions of this operation. Worry about the repercussions to America. You can stop it, right here and right now. Do what’s right. Like in Mexico.”

I locked eyes with her for an instant. She nodded at me, and I committed, wondering if she had some ESP that I was lacking. Praying it was true.

I said, “Execute. Tell them to execute. I’ll stop the clock.”

Kurt said, “What? Pike, are you sure?”

I said, “Fucking execute. I’m out.”

I ended the call and said, “You’d better hope your instincts are better than mine, because my instincts are saying we’re going to separate prisons.”

She said, “Two minutes. Go.”

I left the car with Decoy, saying, “Lock down this exit.”

74

The Ghost watched Pelón’s car driving away and debated whether to enter the house. There was some reason he’d gone inside, and it might give him an edge. He’d been there for more than an hour, but the Ghost had no idea why. Maybe he should enter and find out what the man had done. At the end of the day, he had Pelón’s bed-down location and could always return to the parking garage, waiting for his chance again should he lose the man. But Pelón might not return to the garage, which meant he needed to stick to him and ignore the house.

Choices, choices.

Hours earlier, in Mexico City, he’d planned a route of escape, going to several banks and withdrawing as much cash as he could on the three credit cards he still maintained. He’d checked the balance and seen one of them was fresh, with over ten thousand dollars in credit. The others had about two thousand each, after the cash withdrawals.

He’d used them to pepper the American radar with plane tickets, buying as many as he could to destinations in South America, the Far East, and, of course, the Middle East. One was to Hamburg, Germany, which was the ticket he had intended to use.

Out of curiosity, he’d checked Pelón’s bank account and had seen three new transactions: one for a hotel called the Antlers Hilton in Colorado Springs, one for a rental car at the Colorado Springs airport, and one he didn’t understand, with something called Manny Aviation Services.

After thirty seconds of research, he’d learned it was a private aviation company, and it dawned on him what Pelón had done.

He’s spending my money on private jets. But why Colorado Springs? What’s there?

His flight to Hamburg wasn’t for three days. Three days and he’d be on his own, severed from the American’s trail but also incapable of traveling anywhere else because that bastard Pelón had taken his money.

He’d stared at the bank transactions, then decided. He had nothing here. A new passport and a few credit cards he could never use once he left Mexico. Pelón had the money. Money that was rightfully his.

He used the card with ten grand to charter his own flight, right into Colorado Springs. Right to the man who had his money. The Americans would be watching the transactions he’d made today but wouldn’t be able to react in time, since they had no idea of the name he was using and the air charter wouldn’t reflect his destination. Only a purchase.

It was a risk, flying into the belly of the beast, but he knew from past operations that FBOs, even in America, were fairly lax. The charter, while expensive, was much, much safer than trying to trick the Americans with multiple tickets.

He’d landed two hours ago and had leveraged the charter service to rent a car for him, using cash to pay for it, then drove straight to the Antlers Hilton. Knowing that Pelón had a rental as well, he circled around back, positioning himself in a spot where he could watch the exits from the multipurpose parking garage. He’d conducted a reconnaissance of the garage, determining where hotel guests parked and liking what he saw. If he cornered Pelón in here, he could kill him without alert. Get the electronic token and be on his way. Provided Pelón had actually parked inside.

He’d waited, as he had on any number of operations, and his patience had been rewarded. Pelón had driven out of the garage, surprising the Ghost. In his heart he had only been half convinced that the man would appear, and here he was. The Ghost had leaned his face against the glass to be sure, then had followed through the streets. He’d shadowed Pelón to the small house, then waited outside for him to return to his car, wondering who the killer was meeting. Wondering what had happened inside.

Watching Pelón’s taillights receding down the street, he put the car in drive, ignoring his curiosity about the house and deciding to follow. At the end of the day Pelón’s plans in Colorado mattered little. The only important thing was the electronic token he owned that accessed the bank account. A token the Ghost was sure was on his person.