Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (34 page)

Johnson must have noticed him trailing behind her. She slowed down and raised her right arm. Justin instinctively ducked on the jet ski, then made a sharp left turn. He clung to the handles as the jet ski almost tipped over.

If Johnson had fired a shot, she missed. Justin twisted on his seat, then pulled the throttle. The jet ski responded by climbing out of the whirlpool around him. He stared ahead.

Johnson was still waiting for him. Her right arm moved, but Justin did not feel the bite of the bullet. He leaned to the left, putting the jet ski between him and Johnson and eased on the throttle.

The water splashed his face and blinded him. He cleared his eyes with his left sleeve, which was also soaked.

Johnson was on the move.

Justin followed the line of foam trailing behind her jet ski. He steered clear of the waves formed by her, carving instead his own course, about six feet away from hers. His jet ski was leaping and bouncing as he kept his finger pressed on the throttle.

Johnson was almost at the large catamaran flying the Spanish flag. Justin kept his steady path, hoping to catch up to Johnson before she boarded the vessel and took hostages.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he shouted.

His finger hurt, the shape of the throttle lever cutting into his skin. The jet ski was going at its top speed, sixty miles per hour. His feet were planted hard on the jet ski’s rubber footwells, but the water had turned them slippery. He struggled to keep from falling off.

The rumble of Johnson’s jet ski died down. She was docking near the catamaran. A man appeared on the deck. Johnson was waving her arms, then pointed toward Justin. The man seemed to nod, then disappeared. A moment later, he tossed her a life ring. Johnson grabbed it, and the man began to pull her and the jet ski.

“No, no, no,” Justin shouted.

He was not sure if the man could hear him over the roar of his machine.

Johnson began to climb the ladder near the catamaran’s stern. As soon as she was on board, she turned toward Justin. She raised both arms in a shooting position. Justin eased his finger on the throttle and turned the handle just an inch. He plunged forward as the jet ski lost speed and responded to his command.

The first bullet struck the right side of the jet ski. Justin went for his pistol. Johnson recalibrated her aim and fired another shot. This one missed. Justin fired a quick burst. Johnson dove down. Justin waited for her to pop up, sweeping the entire side of the catamaran with his gun.

She stood up close to the bow. Justin fired a hurried shot and missed. Johnson fell back.

He gunned the engine and reached the catamaran. He put his left foot on the jet ski’s handles and leaped high. As he landed near the stern, a bullet bored a hole in a large cooler behind him, inches away from his shoulder.

Justin scurried for cover behind the cooler. He checked his gun. Locked and loaded. His shoulder was scrapped, probably by a sliver from the gunfire.

He crawled around the cooler and a few boxes, making his way to the other side of the catamaran.

“Justin,” he heard Johnson’s voice. “You relentless bastard. You never stop, do you?”

A gunshot punctuated her words. It came from the bridge deck cabin.

Justin moved closer to the cabin. He looked through one of the windows but could not see her. Her voice put her a few steps away on the port side. She must have just stepped out of the cabin.

“Justin, I know you can hear me, you coward.”

He resisted the urge to respond and give away his position. Instead, he stood up and took another quick peek through the window. He saw Johnson moving slowly on the walkway between the hull and the bridge deck cabin.

He waited until Johnson took another step. Her head came in full view of the window glass. She crossed through the doorway inside the galley and crouched low beside the stove.

“Drop the gun,” Justin shouted.

Johnson turned her head toward his voice and fired a quick shot. She missed. The bullet shattered the window. A sliver sliced through Justin’s left cheek, missing his eye by an inch. Blood gushed out of the wound.

He returned fire blindly through the window. A three-bullet burst. He smelled gas. A bullet must have pierced the stove’s propane tank.

“Gas leak,” he shouted. “Johnson, get out of there.”

Johnson stood up. Her gun was pointed at him.

Their eyes met for a second.

Justin hesitated, his finger on his pistol’s trigger.

“Drop the gun,” he shouted again.

“Or what? You’re going to kill me?”

Justin kept his eyes on Johnson.

Johnson blinked, then pulled the trigger.

The entire cabin exploded in a massive fireball. The blast threw Justin against the catamaran rail and overboard. He fell head first in the water six feet below.

The salt water flooded into his mouth. He was drowning, but his survival instinct kicked in. He pushed himself around and began to swim upwards, toward the surface. He came up above the water, almost out of breath. He spat and coughed, clearing his mouth and took a few deep breaths.

His face felt hot, very hot. The smell of smoke and burned flesh filled his nostrils. Floating debris from the explosion filled the water around him. Fire continued to eat away at the catamaran.

Justin began to swim toward the catamaran’s stern. He found it difficult to move his left arm, which slowed him down. His right leg also had developed a kink, right above the ankle.
I must have injured it during the fall.

As he reached the stern, he clung to the ladder and struggled to climb up. Aboard the catamaran, it looked like a war zone. A pile of burning rubble stood in the place of the cabin. He saw a human leg sticking out from underneath the pile.

He heard water splashing on the other side. The man who had helped Johnson board the catamaran was struggling to stay above water.

“Help! Help!” he shouted.

Justin jumped into the water and swam fast to go to the man’s rescue.

“Relax, relax,” Justin said. “And breathe. I got you.”

The man’s head was bobbing in and out of the water.

“You’re gonna be OK. I got you.”

The man made eye contact with Justin and nodded. He stopped thrashing and began to dog paddle.

“I’m right behind you,” Justin said, approaching the man with caution. He was worried the drowning man would panic and drag them both under water. “Relax and swim. Yeah, like that.”

The man nodded. His head was staying above water, although he was breathing with difficulty.

Justin reached the man and placed his right arm under the man’s armpits. “Swim toward the boat. That way.”

A big wave covered them both. The man began to flail and kick. He slipped away from Justin’s arm and disappeared under water.

Justin dove in. He found the man three feet away and took hold of his arms, pulling him toward the surface. Once his head was above water, Justin let go.

The man spat out mouthfuls of water. He shouted and cried, beating his arms and kicking his feet.

Justin kept his distance, calling out to the man to calm down and swim.

Another wave splashed against them, but their heads stayed above water.

Justin drew near the man and attempted to rescue him again. The man was calmer this time. Justin locked his arms around the man’s body and slowly began to bring him toward the boat. The man almost slipped his grasp a couple of times, but Justin was able to hold on to him.

Five minutes later, Justin pulled the man aboard the catamaran. It took a big effort to climb each step of the ladder, but finally, they lay over the stern.

Justin leaned over the man still struggling with his breathing. His hair was singed, and his face and white shirt and shorts were blackened by the fiery explosion. Burnt marks marred his arms, and he was bleeding out of his left knee.

“How are you feeling?” Justin asked.

The man opened his eyes and looked around. He spat and coughed and spat again. “What . . . what happened here?” he asked between gasps.

“The cabin must have had the perfect mix of propane and oxygen. When she fired her pistol, a spark lit up the mixture.” Justin’s attention was glued to the human leg underneath the burning debris.

“I’ve . . . I called the police before the explosion,” the man said.

“I’ll call an ambulance and the firemen. We can still save your boat.” Justin gave him a tired look. “If there’s still a phone somewhere around here.”

The man’s breathing was calmer, more regular. He was going to make it.

Justin stood up and gazed at the shoreline. Then he walked over and looked at Johnson’s body buried under the rubble.

“I wish it ended differently,” was all he said.

Epilogue

Canadian Intelligence Service Headquarters, Ottawa, Canada

October 11, 6:30 p.m. local time

Justin was not sure if McClain had planned a scolding session about the gunfire in the famous Spanish tourist beach, the explosion aboard the catamaran, or both. He was bracing for a fierce lashing as he entered McClain’s office. The last time he was here, he got away with a light slap on the wrist. He feared he had played all his good cards with McClain.

He was surprised and pleased to find his boss in a cheerful mood. McClain invited him to sit on a comfortable chair across his large desk.

“You’re probably wondering about the Spanish investigation,” McClain said after they exchanged pleasantries. “You will be glad to hear they’ve decided to close the case.”

Justin nodded. The Spanish police had made him slightly nervous when they briefly arrested him, claiming they were going to keep him locked up until his trial. That was before they verified his credentials and his status as a Canadian diplomat.

“They chose to believe the version of self-defense,” McClain continued, his eyes focused on Justin’s face. “Though we both know it was far from it.”

“I’m not in the habit of shooting my bosses, former or current,” Justin replied, trying to lighten up the situation. “Well, unless they betray their country and unleash a horde of terrorists after me.”

McClain frowned. “The Spanish did us, well,
you,
a favor. These things can’t happen again on their soil. Unauthorized shootings and killings. I gave them my word. I’m not in the habit of breaking it.”

Justin nodded. “These
will not
happen again, sir,” he said, although they both knew he could not promise that would be the case.

“Was there another way to bring Johnson in?”

Justin hesitated. “Perhaps. But she left me with no options.” His voice turned low, his face grew dark. “I saw it in her eyes, just before the final shot. She knew what she was doing. She had decided she was not coming in alive. Even in her final act, she tried to kill us both.”

McClain nodded.

“She didn’t want a trial,” Justin continued, “the bad press, the shame, the humiliation of being convicted as a traitor. In this way, we have only allegations.”

“Yes. Her family and her friends will never learn the truth. But at least she’s no longer a threat. We’re no longer bleeding secrets to our enemies.”

Justin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Any intel she may have stolen and given to someone else?”

McClain shrugged. “Not as far as we know. But we can’t exclude the possibility.”

Justin bit his lip and did not say anything.

“What exactly happened to Nathan? In your report you said he was wounded and unable to take part in the chase.” McClain picked up a brown folder from his desk.

Justin smiled. “Yeah, didn’t want to embarrass him. Johnson’s bodyguard was waiting in our hotel suite. He knocked out Nathan when he realized he was not me. When he woke up, Nathan found himself handcuffed to his bed post.”

McClain flipped through the folder. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Falling into a trap happens to everyone.”

“Nathan thinks otherwise. He asked me to keep this out of the official report. He doesn’t want it on his record with the Service.”

“That’s fine by me.” McClain tossed the report back on the table. “And on the topic of things kept out of records and reports,” McClain said, “our friend at CIA has resigned for personal reasons.”

“Adams?”

McClain peered at Justin over his glasses. “You have other friends at CIA?”

“No, not really.”

“Mr. Adams resigned so he could spend more time with his family.”

“The same family he successfully ignored for the last twenty-five years?”

“Well, he’s on his third wife. Maybe he’ll make it work with this one. But don’t expect any gifts at the end of the year from CIA.”

“I didn’t get anything last year either. Did you?”

“Uh-uh. Nothing for Easter or Christmas. Seriously though, they’re quite pissed at our trick. They insisted we should have gone to them, and they would have handled the matter discreetly. Like they gave us intelligence about our traitor.”

“It was not the same. Adams was not our kind of traitor. He was still a part of the intelligence community, a vital part, but caved in to blackmail. He was doing everything to hide his mistakes at the expense of the US and her allies. Johnson wanted revenge. Adams wanted survival.”

McClain leaned back in his seat. “Survival which he got. CIA is not and will not admit anything. They’re sending Adams away to close this scandal.”

“I hope he truly goes away and doesn’t come back seeking revenge.”

“Yes, I hope not.”

McClain took a sip from his coffee mug. Justin had declined his offer to have someone bring him a drink.

“NYPD found the second man involved in the NY car bombing. He died in a shootout with police earlier today,” McClain said.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Justin replied.

“Have you heard from Carrie?” McClain asked. “She sent me an e-mail from Grozny, saying she was expecting some good news.”

“Yes. She came into some information about her father’s grave from one of the investigators she hired in Grozny. They’ve discovered some remains that could be her father’s. A witness testimony and some paperwork seems to indicate that much. She’s arranging for DNA tests.”