Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

Pelón traveled down Platte Avenue, going toward the city center. Once again acting as if he had a destination in mind. Making the Ghost wonder anew at what he was doing. He had the money, so why not simply flee? Why did he come here?

Pelón passed a large park, then turned left into an alley between two buildings. The Ghost followed. He traveled down the narrow gap, crossing one street, then another, the alley opening up into a parking area. Pelón’s car slowed. A block behind, the Ghost waited in the alley, not wanting to reveal that he was there. Pelón drove a short distance through the parking area, then stopped, right next to an exit leading back to the east. Another alley. Seeing two other cars pull into the lot, the Ghost followed, keeping his eyes on the killer’s car.

He pulled up short, giving him the ability to flee the way he had come but also circle around and intersect Pelón on Tejon Street, should he use the alley exit to the east.

He watched the car, waiting on something to happen. Curious as to what Pelón was doing here, in a back-alley parking lot in Colorado Springs.

Eventually, he saw a light come on inside Pelón’s car, then recognized him exiting. He was only fifty meters away, even at night the Ghost could identify his shattered visage, the scars on his forehead glowing in the interior light of the car.

Pelón shut his door and crouched, moving through the other cars as if he were trying to hide. As if he were hunting something.

The Ghost followed his line of march with his eyes. And saw his target, twenty meters away.

75

I entered the back of the bar with Decoy, feeling the pressure of my decision. Not liking the weight on my shoulders. We ran into a room full of pool tables, the bar packed to the gills. I started swiveling my head, immediately realizing the stupidity of my bravado on the phone.

There is no way we’re going to find this guy inside here. Not in under two minutes. Damn it. I should have aborted Operation Gimlet.

I called Knuckles. “We’re in. Status?”

“I have the computer with me, and it’s got about ten minutes of battery left.”

No issue. Two minutes from now it won’t matter.

He continued. “I came in the front, but there’s a stairwell on the other side that leads into the bar to the south. I’ve got Blood positioned there. Pike, we’re out of time. I’m tracking two minutes and counting.”

“I know, I know. Find him. He’s here.” I hope.

Decoy and I pushed our way into the main bar area and I saw a circular stairway leading up. Holy shit. Another exit. That makes four. We are screwed.

I pulled Decoy’s sleeve. “I’m headed up. Keep going forward. You find him, lock him down. I don’t give a damn about the repercussions. He resists, knock him the fuck out. Call and we’ll handle the bouncers.”

He said, “Wow. I’m getting paid to get in a bar fight. Where were you ten years ago?”

I would have laughed, but the impact of my decision to continue took away all humor. Beyond the fact that the US grid was going to grind to a halt, there were a lot of civilians in Syria who were going to be incinerated by American airpower. And I’d made the decision to execute.

I sprinted up the circular staircase, exploding onto the second floor and drawing stares. This floor had another bar running lengthwise from the staircase exit, and it was full of people. I started bulling my way through, now drawing glares. That was fine by me. I needed a reaction. Girls were talking and pointing, and guys were bowing up. I saw another staircase to the right and hoped that was the one Blood was tracking.

To my front was a balcony with a fire pit. No Arthur Booth. To my right was another room. I could see tables inside. I started moving that way when a lumberjack-looking guy said, “Hey, you got any manners?”

I said, “I’m sorry, I’m looking for my daughter. She’s underage and she’s here with a guy.” The excuse was just the first thing I could come up with. His answer was the worst thing he could have said.

He glanced at the man behind him and said, “Maybe she’s here with me.”

My sweet daughter’s face flashed in my head, forever six years old, and I punched his throat as hard as I could, watching him collapse on the ground. His buddy looked at me in shock, and blackness began to flow. The pressure causing the beast to appear.

I said, “You seen my daughter?”

He shook his head like he was a dog wringing water.

“Then move the fuck out of my way.”

He piled into the people behind him as if he was fleeing a fire. I marched through the gap, everyone now focused on the turmoil. I reached the room and saw a man with a computer. He looked up, and I recognized Arthur Booth.

He slammed the lid down and took off running, straight toward the stairs on the far side. I started flinging people out of the way, but my rage did no good. The sheer physics of the bodies prevented me from intercepting him. I made it to the top of the stairs as he was reaching the bottom. Reaching the exit to the bar next door.

I bounded down the steps three at a time. He turned in the landing and I lost sight of him. For one second. He was gone, then he appeared again, flying into the wall and collapsing. Blood whirled around the corner, his fists raised. He saw me and turned back to the target.

I said, “Knuckles, Knuckles, jackpot. I say again, jackpot. Eastern stairwell leading to the other bar. Need the computer. Need it right now!”

Booth rolled around on the filthy floor, finally focusing. He said, “I have rights. I want a lawyer.”

I pulled out a serrated knife and said, “All I want is your fucking thumb.”

76

The sicario strained his eyes, trying to penetrate the glare from the streetlight. He’d passed the car and seen the person inside, the brief instant shocking him. It was the female from Mexico City. The same one from Tepito. The one who’d interrupted the meeting in the museum. But how? Why was she here?

And it dawned on him. She was still tracking Arthur Booth. She was trying to capture him for his computer skills. The sicario no longer cared about that, but he cared a great deal about what Booth would say. He would give up the sicario’s true name. And for that, she would have to die.

He sat in the darkness and thought of the intertwining of events. It was always a mixture of circumstances. On the surface, none seemed to matter, but all were intertwined. Random events that shaped future events, but there wasn’t any overarching purpose. Like the fox in his youth. An animal following his nature had caused the loss of their livelihood and had driven his sister to prostitution. She had become a favorite of his Kaibil battalion commander, and because of it, his village had been targeted by rebels. He in turn had exacted his revenge. Had started on his path.

Nothing but random events.

Throughout all of the brutality he had searched for meaning. Searched to find some fingerprint from the hand of God, but had failed. And the woman here was but one more piece of evidence. He would kill her, and nothing would stop that.

He had worried about his soul. Worried that he would burn in hell for his actions, but there was no hell. No greater being that would punish him. The journalist had been wrong and he had been right. There was no such thing as good or evil. Only interconnected events. God couldn’t punish him for actions that He could prevent. And He had never once prevented anything the sicario had done.

He slid out of the car, crouching between it and the one next to him, and began to stalk, his thoughts saddening him.

He wanted to believe in destiny. Wanted to believe, like the journalist, that there was good and evil in the world, and that following one path led to salvation. Even if it meant he would burn in hell for eternity. That one moment of truth would be worth the price.